ish

The pre-season heat in Bahrain always smelled like roasted dust, high octane fuel, and fresh paint.

By seven in the evening, the sun had dropped below the desert horizon, turning the sky a deep, bruised violet and lighting up the palm trees along the main paddock corridor in artificial gold. Mechanics in oil stained polo shirts pushed tire stacks on heavy trollies, the clatter of metal rims echoing off the crisp, glass fronted hospitality buildings.

You leaned against the back wall of the McLaren motorhome, your laminated season pass bouncing against your chest as you flicked through the audio files on your dictaphone.

Six years in the paddock meant you knew the rhythm of Thursday media day down to the second. You knew which press officers let interviews run two minutes over, which press room coffee machine actually boiled water, and which drivers needed five minutes of quiet before facing a room full of lenses.

"You're standing in the sun" a voice muttered.

You didn't look up from your screen. "The sun went down twenty minutes ago, Lando."

"Still hot," Lando Norris replied, stepping around the side of the truck.

He was wearing his team issue papaya polo, the sleeves pushed up on his forearms, a dark cap turned backward over curls that were already damp at the temples from a late afternoon engineering briefing. He looked tired—that specific brand of pre-season exhaustion where a driver’s body was still adjusting to the brutal g-forces of a new chassis while their brain was fried from sponsor events and strategy meetings.

He slumped against the metal structure beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours through the thin fabric of your linen shirt. He didn't move away. Neither did you.

"How bad was the long run in FP2?" you asked softly, pausing your recording app.

Lando groaned, tilting his head back until his cap bumped against the paneling. "Don't write about it yet. Will is convinced we have a brake bias issue, but honestly, the rear just felt like ice from lap ten onwards. I told them we’re going to kill the rears by lap fifteen on Sunday if we don't drop the wing level."

"I won't print the setup details," you said, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "I'm writing the Friday baseline feature. Human interest, team morale, high expectations."

Lando turned his head sideways, his sharp green eyes searching your face. Up close, away from the hyperactive energy he put on for twitch streams and tv crews, there was a quiet, observational depth to him that most people missed. He watched the way you organized your press notes, the effortless authority with which you commanded a room full of senior editors, and the way you never, ever treated him like a soundbite machine.

"You always write the fair stuff," he said softly. It wasn't a compliment meant to flatter; it was an observation built on years of trust. "Half the press room had headlines written about our failure before we even flew out of London."

"Half the press room doesn't know how to read a telemetry chart without an engineer explaining it to them first," you replied crisply, sliding your notebook into your canvas tote bag. "I've been watching you drive since you were fifteen at Carlin, Norris. I know when you're genuinely struggling and when you're just sandbagging."

A tiny, genuine smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Was I sandbagging?"

"No," you chuckled. "You looked like you were wrestling a shopping cart with a broken wheel through sector two."

Lando let out a snort of laughter, rubbing his hand over his face. "God, you're brutal."

"I'm accurate."

"Lando!"

Charlotte, his press officer, poked her head around the glass doors of the motorhome, her iPad tucked under her arm. "Five minutes till the print media bullpen. We have Sky Germany right after."

Lando sighed, the relaxed slouch disappearing as he straightened his posture, pulling his cap off and running his fingers through his hair to reset it before pulling it back on.

"Duty calls," he murmured, looking down at you. "You coming to the bullpen?"

"I have a seat reserved in row two," you said, gesturing toward the press room. "I need a quote about tire wear that doesn't sound like a press release."

"I'll give you a quote," he said, stepping backward toward Charlotte, his eyes holding yours for a beat too long. "Off the record?"

"Always," you whispered.

Silverstone in July was meant to be summer, but the English weather had delivered a persistent, freezing drizzle that turned the grass car parks into mud slicks and painted the pit lane in a slick, gray sheen.

It was Saturday afternoon, thirty minutes after a chaotic, red flag strewn qualifying session. The paddock was electric. The British fans in the grandstands were still singing, their rain ponchos a sea of neon blue and papaya, because Lando had just put his car on the front row, missing pole position by less than a tenth of a second to a dominant Red Bull.

You were sitting in the media center, your fingers flying across your mechanical keyboard as you hammered out a reaction piece for Monday morning's paper. The room was loud, keyboards clicking like hail on a tin roof, french and italian journalists shouting over headphones, televisions mounted on every pillar replaying Sector 3 highlights.

A soft tap on your shoulder broke your concentration.

You turned to find Lando standing in the aisle between the long rows of press desks. He was wearing a thick black McLaren team jacket, the hood pulled halfway up over a towel draped around his neck. His face was pale from the adrenaline crash, but his eyes were bright, lit from within by the high of a lap that had bordered on perfection.

Several journalists nearby turned their heads, surprised to see a driver walking through the middle of the print media floor after qualifying.

"You're not allowed in here," you murmured, though your chest tightened with a sudden, sharp heat at the sight of him. "If the FIA media delegate sees you, he'll give you a fine."

"I don't care," Lando said quietly. He leaned down, placing both hands on the edge of your desk, invading your personal space with an ease that made your breath hitch in your throat. He smelled of damp rain, cold air, and the sharp scent of his post-session shower. "Did you see the delta through Copse?"

"I saw it," you whispered, turning off your mic display so nothing recorded. "You were three tenths up on the ghost car. I thought you were going to put it in the wall on exit."

"I thought I was too," he admitted, a breathless, boyish grin breaking across his features. "I had to catch the rear on the exit curb. It was completely sideways."

"It was brilliant, Lando," you said, letting the professional distance slip for a fraction of a second. You reached out, your fingers briefly touching the cold, damp sleeve of his heavy jacket. "Seriously. One of the best laps I've ever seen you drive."

Lando froze for a second, his hazel green eyes dropping to where your hand rested against his arm before rising to meet yours. The noise of forty typing journalists seemed to fade into a dull, meaningless hum.

"Thanks," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its media-trained pitch entirely. "I wanted to... I don't know. I wanted to make sure you were watching that session."

"I watch every session."

"Yeah," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly looking a bit self-conscious. "But today felt different. My family's here... and you were sitting right on the pit wall canopy during FP3."

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "It's my job, Norris."

"Stop saying that," he muttered softly, though there was no real edge to it. "You can just say you wanted to watch me drive."

Before you could construct a clever, witty response to protect yourself, Charlotte materialized at the end of the desk row, holding two umbrellas and looking frantic.

"Lando! The official FIA top-three press conference is starting in two minutes! They're waiting for you on the stage!"

Lando didn't look at Charlotte immediately. He kept his eyes on you, his thumb lightly stroking the edge of your wooden desk before he slowly pulled back.

"Don't write your article yet," he whispered, leaning down one last time. "Wait till after the press conference. I've got a better story for you."

"Is that an exclusive?" you teased, trying to keep your voice light despite the erratic pounding of your heart.

"For you?" Lando smiled—a small, private thing reserved entirely for the space between the two of you. "Always."

Formula 1 in Singapore was an endurance test designed to break human beings.

The humidity hovered around eighty five percent, the night air felt like stepping into a heated sauna, and the schedule was deliberately twisted, drivers and media stayed on european time, eating breakfast at four in the afternoon and going to bed as the sun came up over the Marina Bay skyline.

It was two in the morning on Sunday night, three hours after the chequered flag had dropped.

The race had been a nightmare of safety cars, humidity, and mechanical attrition. Lando had fought through fifty seven grueling laps to secure a hard-won podium, but the physical cost was terrifyingly clear.

You had finished your post race press obligations and were walking through the quiet, dim paddock behind the pit building, carrying a heavy bag filled with camera lenses and audio gear. Most hospitality suites were already closed, their lights dimmed, leaving the paddock in twilight.

As you passed the back door of the McLaren garage, you noticed a figure sitting on a stacked pair of pirelli transport crates in the shadows.

It was Lando.

He was still in his race undershirt and fireproof trousers, the top half rolled down around his waist. He had a white ice towel draped over his head, shielding his face, and his chest was heaving slowly. A large bottle of electrolyte water sat untouched between his feet. He was completely alone — no trainers, no PR, no cameras.

You paused, your instincts as a journalist telling you to give him space, but your feelings as someone who cared deeply about him winning out.

You walked over quietly, your sneakers squeaking faintly on the damp concrete.

"Lando?" you asked gently.

He flinched slightly before lifting the edge of the ice towel. His face was flushed crimson, dark shadows under his eyes, his hair dripping wet with sweat. He looked completely drained, stripped of every ounce of energy he possessed.

When he recognized you, the tension in his shoulders melted instantly.

"Hey." he rasped, his voice rough and dry.

"Are you okay?" You set your heavy bag on the ground and stepped closer, kneeling down so you were at eye level with him. "Where's Jon? Where's the team?"

"Sent 'em away," Lando mumbled, pressing the cold towel against the back of his neck. "Needed five minutes where nobody was touching me or asking me how I felt. My core temp is through the roof."

Without thinking, you reached into your tote bag and pulled out a small, unopened bottle of still water you had taken from the press room. You twisted the cap off and handed it to him.

"Drink," you commanded softly. "Small sips."

He took the bottle, his hand trembling slightly as his fingers brushed against yours. He drank slowly, letting out a long, shuddering exhale as he set the bottle down.

"Horrible race," he muttered, resting his elbows on his knees. "Felt like I was drowning in the car from lap twenty. My drink tube broke on lap five."

You gasped softly. "You drove fifty two laps in Singapore without water?"

"Yeah," he gave a faint, bitter chuckle. "Thought I was going to pass out under the second safety car. Had to force myself to keep talking to Will on the radio just to stay awake."

A sudden wave of intense protectiveness washed over you. You reached out, taking the ice towel from his hands, wringing out the excess cold water into the drain beside the crates, and then gently placed it over his burning forehead, patting his damp curls back.

Lando stilled completely under your touch.

He closed his eyes, leaning his weight forward until his forehead rested against the center of your chest, right over your heart. His hands came up, resting tentatively around your waist, his fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt as if to anchor himself against the dizziness.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The paddock was dead quiet around you—just the distant hum of air conditioning units and the soft sound of his ragged breathing. You didn't move away. You brought one hand up, resting your fingers gently at the base of his neck, feeling the fast, steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin.

"You're okay," you whispered into the quiet night, your fingers threading through the soft, damp curls at the back of his head. "It's over now. You got the podium. You're done."

"Stay," Lando mumbled into your chest, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction—not possessive, but desperate for stability. "Please. Don't go back to the press room yet."

"I'm right here," you whispered, resting your chin lightly on top of his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

For ten minutes, you stayed like that in the shadows behind the garage—a Grand Prix driver and a journalist, holding each other in the heavy Singapore heat until his breathing finally evened out and his skin felt cool against your touch.

By the time the european season reached its climax at Monza, the atmosphere between you and Lando had shifted into a zone that neither of you knew how to name.

It wasn't an open relationship — you hadn't kissed, nor had you spoken directly about what was happening. But it was felt by everyone who knew where to look.

It was the way Lando’s eyes always found yours first when he walked into a packed press conference room. It was the way you instinctively kept a seat open next to you in the media hospitality during long red-flag delays. It was the way he’d drop a quiet, inside joke into a television interview that only you would understand, watching your lips twitch from behind your notebook across the room.

It was professional, disciplined, and utterly suffocating in its restraint.

On Sunday evening after the Italian Grand Prix, the paddock was clearing out quickly as teams rushed to load freight for the upcoming flyaway races.

You were standing near the turnstile exit of the circuit, waiting for your ride-share to the Milan airport, when a black driver-service vehicle pulled up along the gravel curb. The rear window rolled down, revealing Lando. He had a black hoodie pulled over his head and dark sunglasses resting on his nose despite the setting sun.

"Get in" he said simply.

You glanced around the gravel lane. A few security guards were locking up the gates, but the press corps had already left on the official shuttle buses.

"Lando, I have an airport car coming—"

"Cancel it" he said, pushing the door open from the inside. "I'm going to Malpensa too. Private terminal, but my driver can drop you at the main terminal first. Save you thirty Euros."

You looked at the open car door, then down at your phone display, which showed your driver was stuck in Monza traffic ten minutes away.

"If anyone sees me getting out of a driver car at Malpensa..." you began carefully.

"Tinted windows" Lando replied, pulling his sunglasses down slightly to look at you over the frames with those sharp green eyes. "Come on. My legs hurt from sixty laps of heavy braking and I want company."

You yielded, sliding into the cool, leather-scented interior of the executive van. The door slid shut with a heavy vacuum seal, cutting off the dusty noise of the circuit outside.

The drive toward Milan was quiet. The sun was setting behind the Lombardy hills, painting the highway in deep shades of amber and rose. Up front, the driver was listening to low classical music on the radio, completely ignoring the back seats.

Lando slouched in his captain's chair, his knees bumped against yours in the narrow aisle. He reached out, casually taking your heavy laptop bag from your lap and dropping it onto the floorboards.

"You work too much" he murmured, his voice thick with tiredness.

"I have three column deadlines before midnight, Lando," you said, resting your head back against the leather headrest. "Some of us don't have private jets waiting to fly us home."

Lando didn't answer right away. He turned his head, staring out the darkened window at the passing trees.

"Come to Monaco with me" he said quietly.

The sentence hung in the air, heavy and sudden, mixing with the soft violin music playing from the dashboard.

You turned your head slowly to look at him. "What?"

"Come to Monaco" Lando repeated, turning back to face you. His expression wasn't playful or teasing; it was dead serious. "I have three days off before we fly to Japan. You can write your columns from my apartment. Nobody’s there. No paddock eyes, no press officers, no cameras."

Your stomach flipped, a dizzying mix of longing and fear rushing through your veins.

"Lando... you know I can't do that," you said, keeping your voice low and gentle. "If anyone found out I spent three days at your apartment between races, my credibility as a journalist would be completely destroyed. People would say every positive article I've ever written about you was biased."

Lando's jaw tightened slightly. He looked down at his lap, his fingers pulling at a loose thread on his tracksuit trousers.

"It is biased" he muttered softly. "You like me. I know you do. And I'm sick of pretending I only talk to you because you carry a microphone."

The raw honesty of his words hit you like a physical force.

"Lando..."

"I'm serious" he continued, turning his full gaze on you, his hazel eyes fierce with a frustration that had clearly been building for months. "I hate having to act like you're just another journalist when we're in the paddock. I hate watching other drivers try to flirt with you in the press bullpen. I hate that I have to wait until everyone leaves the room just to ask you how your day was."

"It's my career, Lando!" you whispered fiercely, leaning closer so the driver couldn't hear. "I spent seven years building a reputation in a male-dominated sport where women are already judged twice as hard! If I become 'Lando Norris's journalist girlfriend,' everything I've ever worked for gets erased. I become a headline."

Lando stared at you, his chest rising and falling heavily. The frustration in his eyes slowly dissolved, replaced by a profound, painful understanding.

He swallowed hard, looking away toward the window.

"I know" he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I know. I'm sorry. That was selfish."

Seeing the sudden wall go up between you broke your heart far more than any paddock rumor ever could. You reached across the small gap between your seats, wrapping your hand over his wrist. His skin was warm, his muscles tense.

"It wasn't selfish," you said softly, squeezing his wrist until he looked back at you. "It's just... hard. This world doesn't leave room for real things, Lando."

Lando looked down at your hand on his arm. He didn't pull away, but he didn't close the distance either.

"Then maybe" he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the tires, "this world sucks."

The Japanese Grand Prix at Suzuka was legendary for its atmosphere—fanatical crowds wearing homemade DRS hats, historic asphalt winding through the Mie mountains, and weather that could swing from blinding sunshine to torrential typhoons in thirty minutes.

It was Sunday afternoon, an hour before the race.

The paddock was a hive of intense, chaotic energy. Engineers were running tires to the pit lane, broadcast crews were setting up live cameras, and VIP guests were lining the paddock walkways hoping for autographs.

You were standing near the back of the McLaren garage, double-checking your media grid pass, when you saw Charlotte walking toward you with an anxious look on her face.

"Have you seen Lando?" she asked, glancing at her watch. "He was supposed to be in the driver parade line ten minutes ago, but he disappeared after the driver meeting."

You frowned slightly. "Did you check his driver room?"

"Locked," Charlotte sighed. "Jon said he went for a walk behind the old paddock building, but he's not answering his radio."

"I'll look for him," you offered instantly. "I know where he usually goes when he needs quiet."

You walked away from the high tech hospitality units, taking a narrow concrete pathway behind the historic circuit office buildings where the crowds couldn't reach.

Sure enough, sitting on a rusted metal staircase leading up to a storage room, sat Lando.

He was already in his full race suit, the top half zipped up to his collar, his helmet resting on the step beside him. He was staring down at his hands, his knuckles pale as he gripped his balaclava tightly.

"Lando?" you called softly, stopping at the base of the stairs.

He looked up sharply. When he saw it was you, his posture softened, but the tension in his face didn't fade.

"Charlotte's looking for you," you said gently, taking two steps up the stairs so you were standing just below him. "Driver parade starts in five minutes."

"I know" he said, his voice flat. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I just... needed a minute."

You looked at him carefully. You had covered enough races to spot the signs of intense pre-race anxiety—the silent tremor in the fingers, the tight jaw, the distant, unfocused gaze.

"Is the car okay?" you asked quietly.

"Car's fine" he muttered. He looked up at you, his green eyes searching yours with an intense, raw vulnerability that made your chest ache. "I'm starting P2. Max is on pole. The wind in Sector 1 is gusting at forty knots. If I mess up Turn 1... if I ruin the team's weekend again..."

"Hey," you cut in firmly, stepping up another stair so you were standing directly in front of him. "Look at me."

Lando paused, his eyes rising to yours.

"You are not going to mess up Turn 1," you said, your voice ringing with an absolute, unwavering authority that shattered his self-doubt. "You are one of the best drivers on this grid. You drove through rain at Silverstone, you survived fifty laps without water in Singapore, and you put this car on the front row at the hardest driver's track in the world."

Lando stared at you, his lips slightly parted, listening to every word as if it were a lifeline.

"You don't drive for the press" you continued softly, reaching out to lightly tap the McLaren emblem over his chest. "You don't drive for the headlines. You drive because you're Lando Norris, and nobody takes Turn 1 at Suzuka better than you."

A long, quiet second passed. The distant roar of seventy thousand fans in the grandstands echoed across the hills, but between the two of you, the air was entirely still.

Lando let out a long, trembling breath. The tension in his jaw relaxed. A small, slow smile worked its way back onto his face—not his public smile, but his real one.

"You're really good at your job, you know that?" he whispered.

"I told you," you smiled back, your eyes warming. "I'm accurate."

Lando stood up from the metal step, picking up his helmet. He stood a stair above you, making him taller than usual. He looked down at you, his expression shifting from anxiety to something deep, quiet, and profound.

He reached out, his hand gently settling at the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. The touch was so tender, so full of unspoken emotion, that tears pricked the backs of your eyes.

"Thank you" he murmured softly.

"Go drive fast, Norris," you whispered, leaning your face slightly into his touch before he pulled his hand away.

He gave you one last, bright look, pulled his balaclava over his head, and headed down the stairs toward the noise of the pit lane.

The final race of the twenty four race calendar was always a strange mix of relief, exhaustion, and quiet nostalgia.

The Yas Marina Circuit was bathed in twilight, the iconic hotel structure glowing in shifting shades of purple and pink against the dark Persian Gulf sky. Fireworks were already being set up on the marina docks for the post-race parties.

The championship was decided, the season was over, and the paddock felt lighter, looser, as if a collective weight had been lifted off two thousand shoulders.

You had submitted your final race analysis article at eleven in the evening. Your bag was packed, your media pass was sitting on your desk, and your flight back to London was scheduled for six the next morning.

You walked out of the media center for the last time that year, taking a slow stroll down the quiet paddock lane.

As you passed the back of the McLaren hospitality, a hand reached out from between two freight containers, gently pulling you into the quiet shadow between the trucks.

Before you could gasp, you smelled his familiar scent—fresh rain, hotel soap, and charcoal cotton.

Lando was standing there, wearing an oversized black hoodie and grey sweatpants, his hair damp from his post-race shower. He had finished on the podium again tonight, closing out his best-ever Formula 1 season.

"You scared me" you breathed, leaning back against the metal wall of the container.

"Sorry" he whispered, though he didn't step back. He stood close, his body blocking you from the view of anyone walking down the main lane. "Saw you carrying your bag out. Thought you were going to leave without saying goodbye."

"I was going to text you," you admitted softly.

Lando looked down at you, his green eyes capturing the ambient neon light of the Yas Marina hotel. He looked rested, relieved, and entirely present.

"Season's over" he said quietly.

"It is," you agreed. "Twenty four races. We survived."

"No more press conferences for three months" he continued, taking a step closer until his chest was inches from yours. "No more media bullpens. No more official interviews."

Your heart began to race, a familiar, exquisite tension filling the narrow space between you. "Lando..."

"No more off the record quotes" he whispered, reaching out to wrap his fingers gently around your wrist, lifting your hand to rest against his chest, right over his beating heart. "Just us."

You looked up into his eyes, feeling the steady, warm rhythm beneath your palm. All the arguments about professional boundaries, all the fear of paddock gossip, all the rules you had carefully maintained for seven years suddenly felt small and distant compared to the truth of the man standing in front of you.

"Lando," you murmured softly, "what are we doing?"

"I don't care about the headlines anymore" Lando said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper that resonated in your bones. "I cared about keeping you safe from the noise. But the noise is gone now. And I'm not going to spend another season pretending I'm not completely in love with you."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The world seemed to stop spinning.

"Lando..."

"I have been in love with you since Silverstone" he confessed, his thumb tracing soft circles on your wrist. "Maybe even before that. Every time I get in the car, every time I stand on a podium, the first person I want to talk to is you. Not because you're a journalist. Because you're you."

Tears blurred your vision, warm and sudden. You lifted your other hand, resting your palm against his cheek, feeling the soft warmth of his skin.

"I love you too," you whispered, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them — a truth that had been living in your heart for months, finally given air. "God, Lando, I've loved you for so long."

A radiant, beautiful smile broke across Lando's face — the purest, happiest expression you had ever seen on him.

He didn't hesitate. He leaned down, his hands coming up to gently frame your face, and brought his lips down to meet yours.

The kiss was slow, deep, and filled with the built-up longing of an entire year spent sitting across from each other in crowded rooms, communicating in secret glances and quiet whispers. It was warm, real, and utterly realigning — the sharp, high speed chaotic world of formula 1 melting away into the absolute stillness of his arms around you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his hands sliding down to wrap securely around your waist, holding you close against his chest.

"Come home with me" he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "To Monaco. Not as a journalist. As my girl."

You closed your eyes, letting out a soft, happy laugh that turned into a quiet sob of relief against his shoulder.

"Yes," you whispered, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his collarbone. "Yes. I'm coming home with you."

Lando held you tighter, resting his chin on top of your head as the fireworks over the Abu Dhabi marina exploded in golden light above the paddock, painting the night sky in brilliant, celebratory color.

Three months later.

The winter break in Monaco was silent. The superyachts in the harbor rocked gently against their moorings, the streets of Monte Carlo were free of grandstand construction, and the Mediterranean sea was a quiet, glassy blue under the cool January sun.

In a modern apartment overlooking the water, the living room was filled with warm sunlight.

You were sitting on the long, cream-colored sofa, wearing an oversized grey hoodie that belonged to Lando, your laptop resting on your knees as you finalized a preview feature for the upcoming car launch season.

From the kitchen, the sound of a coffee machine whirring signaled that breakfast was almost ready.

Lando walked into the living room holding two mugs of coffee. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a messy head of curls, looking relaxed, tanned, and completely at peace.

He set the mugs on the coffee table and dropped down onto the sofa beside you, pulling your feet into his lap and wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you against his side.

"Still writing?" he murmured, leaning over to kiss your temple.

"Just finishing the McLaren preview" you said, smiling as you saved your document. "I'm trying to decide what to write about your new driver training regime."

Lando leaned over your shoulder, looking at your laptop screen. He read the headline you had drafted:

'Norris Enters New Season with Quiet Confidence and Unshakable Focus.'

He chuckled softly, resting his chin on your shoulder, his arm tightening around your waist.

"Is that accurate?" he asked playfully.

You turned your head, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips before pulling back to look into his bright green eyes.

"Off the record?" you whispered.

Lando smiled — that private, beautiful smile that was yours and yours alone.

The pre-season heat in Bahrain always smelled like roasted dust, high octane fuel, and fresh paint.

By seven in the evening, the sun had dropped below the desert horizon, turning the sky a deep, bruised violet and lighting up the palm trees along the main paddock corridor in artificial gold. Mechanics in oil stained polo shirts pushed tire stacks on heavy trollies, the clatter of metal rims echoing off the crisp, glass fronted hospitality buildings.

You leaned against the back wall of the McLaren motorhome, your laminated season pass bouncing against your chest as you flicked through the audio files on your dictaphone.

Six years in the paddock meant you knew the rhythm of Thursday media day down to the second. You knew which press officers let interviews run two minutes over, which press room coffee machine actually boiled water, and which drivers needed five minutes of quiet before facing a room full of lenses.

"You're standing in the sun" a voice muttered.

You didn't look up from your screen. "The sun went down twenty minutes ago, Lando."

"Still hot," Lando Norris replied, stepping around the side of the truck.

He was wearing his team issue papaya polo, the sleeves pushed up on his forearms, a dark cap turned backward over curls that were already damp at the temples from a late afternoon engineering briefing. He looked tired—that specific brand of pre-season exhaustion where a driver’s body was still adjusting to the brutal g-forces of a new chassis while their brain was fried from sponsor events and strategy meetings.

He slumped against the metal structure beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours through the thin fabric of your linen shirt. He didn't move away. Neither did you.

"How bad was the long run in FP2?" you asked softly, pausing your recording app.

Lando groaned, tilting his head back until his cap bumped against the paneling. "Don't write about it yet. Will is convinced we have a brake bias issue, but honestly, the rear just felt like ice from lap ten onwards. I told them we’re going to kill the rears by lap fifteen on Sunday if we don't drop the wing level."

"I won't print the setup details," you said, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "I'm writing the Friday baseline feature. Human interest, team morale, high expectations."

Lando turned his head sideways, his sharp green eyes searching your face. Up close, away from the hyperactive energy he put on for twitch streams and tv crews, there was a quiet, observational depth to him that most people missed. He watched the way you organized your press notes, the effortless authority with which you commanded a room full of senior editors, and the way you never, ever treated him like a soundbite machine.

"You always write the fair stuff," he said softly. It wasn't a compliment meant to flatter; it was an observation built on years of trust. "Half the press room had headlines written about our failure before we even flew out of London."

"Half the press room doesn't know how to read a telemetry chart without an engineer explaining it to them first," you replied crisply, sliding your notebook into your canvas tote bag. "I've been watching you drive since you were fifteen at Carlin, Norris. I know when you're genuinely struggling and when you're just sandbagging."

A tiny, genuine smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Was I sandbagging?"

"No," you chuckled. "You looked like you were wrestling a shopping cart with a broken wheel through sector two."

Lando let out a snort of laughter, rubbing his hand over his face. "God, you're brutal."

"I'm accurate."

"Lando!"

Charlotte, his press officer, poked her head around the glass doors of the motorhome, her iPad tucked under her arm. "Five minutes till the print media bullpen. We have Sky Germany right after."

Lando sighed, the relaxed slouch disappearing as he straightened his posture, pulling his cap off and running his fingers through his hair to reset it before pulling it back on.

"Duty calls," he murmured, looking down at you. "You coming to the bullpen?"

"I have a seat reserved in row two," you said, gesturing toward the press room. "I need a quote about tire wear that doesn't sound like a press release."

"I'll give you a quote," he said, stepping backward toward Charlotte, his eyes holding yours for a beat too long. "Off the record?"

"Always," you whispered.

Silverstone in July was meant to be summer, but the English weather had delivered a persistent, freezing drizzle that turned the grass car parks into mud slicks and painted the pit lane in a slick, gray sheen.

It was Saturday afternoon, thirty minutes after a chaotic, red flag strewn qualifying session. The paddock was electric. The British fans in the grandstands were still singing, their rain ponchos a sea of neon blue and papaya, because Lando had just put his car on the front row, missing pole position by less than a tenth of a second to a dominant Red Bull.

You were sitting in the media center, your fingers flying across your mechanical keyboard as you hammered out a reaction piece for Monday morning's paper. The room was loud, keyboards clicking like hail on a tin roof, french and italian journalists shouting over headphones, televisions mounted on every pillar replaying Sector 3 highlights.

A soft tap on your shoulder broke your concentration.

You turned to find Lando standing in the aisle between the long rows of press desks. He was wearing a thick black McLaren team jacket, the hood pulled halfway up over a towel draped around his neck. His face was pale from the adrenaline crash, but his eyes were bright, lit from within by the high of a lap that had bordered on perfection.

Several journalists nearby turned their heads, surprised to see a driver walking through the middle of the print media floor after qualifying.

"You're not allowed in here," you murmured, though your chest tightened with a sudden, sharp heat at the sight of him. "If the FIA media delegate sees you, he'll give you a fine."

"I don't care," Lando said quietly. He leaned down, placing both hands on the edge of your desk, invading your personal space with an ease that made your breath hitch in your throat. He smelled of damp rain, cold air, and the sharp scent of his post-session shower. "Did you see the delta through Copse?"

"I saw it," you whispered, turning off your mic display so nothing recorded. "You were three tenths up on the ghost car. I thought you were going to put it in the wall on exit."

"I thought I was too," he admitted, a breathless, boyish grin breaking across his features. "I had to catch the rear on the exit curb. It was completely sideways."

"It was brilliant, Lando," you said, letting the professional distance slip for a fraction of a second. You reached out, your fingers briefly touching the cold, damp sleeve of his heavy jacket. "Seriously. One of the best laps I've ever seen you drive."

Lando froze for a second, his hazel green eyes dropping to where your hand rested against his arm before rising to meet yours. The noise of forty typing journalists seemed to fade into a dull, meaningless hum.

"Thanks," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its media-trained pitch entirely. "I wanted to... I don't know. I wanted to make sure you were watching that session."

"I watch every session."

"Yeah," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly looking a bit self-conscious. "But today felt different. My family's here... and you were sitting right on the pit wall canopy during FP3."

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "It's my job, Norris."

"Stop saying that," he muttered softly, though there was no real edge to it. "You can just say you wanted to watch me drive."

Before you could construct a clever, witty response to protect yourself, Charlotte materialized at the end of the desk row, holding two umbrellas and looking frantic.

"Lando! The official FIA top-three press conference is starting in two minutes! They're waiting for you on the stage!"

Lando didn't look at Charlotte immediately. He kept his eyes on you, his thumb lightly stroking the edge of your wooden desk before he slowly pulled back.

"Don't write your article yet," he whispered, leaning down one last time. "Wait till after the press conference. I've got a better story for you."

"Is that an exclusive?" you teased, trying to keep your voice light despite the erratic pounding of your heart.

"For you?" Lando smiled—a small, private thing reserved entirely for the space between the two of you. "Always."

Formula 1 in Singapore was an endurance test designed to break human beings.

The humidity hovered around eighty five percent, the night air felt like stepping into a heated sauna, and the schedule was deliberately twisted, drivers and media stayed on european time, eating breakfast at four in the afternoon and going to bed as the sun came up over the Marina Bay skyline.

It was two in the morning on Sunday night, three hours after the chequered flag had dropped.

The race had been a nightmare of safety cars, humidity, and mechanical attrition. Lando had fought through fifty seven grueling laps to secure a hard-won podium, but the physical cost was terrifyingly clear.

You had finished your post race press obligations and were walking through the quiet, dim paddock behind the pit building, carrying a heavy bag filled with camera lenses and audio gear. Most hospitality suites were already closed, their lights dimmed, leaving the paddock in twilight.

As you passed the back door of the McLaren garage, you noticed a figure sitting on a stacked pair of pirelli transport crates in the shadows.

It was Lando.

He was still in his race undershirt and fireproof trousers, the top half rolled down around his waist. He had a white ice towel draped over his head, shielding his face, and his chest was heaving slowly. A large bottle of electrolyte water sat untouched between his feet. He was completely alone — no trainers, no PR, no cameras.

You paused, your instincts as a journalist telling you to give him space, but your feelings as someone who cared deeply about him winning out.

You walked over quietly, your sneakers squeaking faintly on the damp concrete.

"Lando?" you asked gently.

He flinched slightly before lifting the edge of the ice towel. His face was flushed crimson, dark shadows under his eyes, his hair dripping wet with sweat. He looked completely drained, stripped of every ounce of energy he possessed.

When he recognized you, the tension in his shoulders melted instantly.

"Hey." he rasped, his voice rough and dry.

"Are you okay?" You set your heavy bag on the ground and stepped closer, kneeling down so you were at eye level with him. "Where's Jon? Where's the team?"

"Sent 'em away," Lando mumbled, pressing the cold towel against the back of his neck. "Needed five minutes where nobody was touching me or asking me how I felt. My core temp is through the roof."

Without thinking, you reached into your tote bag and pulled out a small, unopened bottle of still water you had taken from the press room. You twisted the cap off and handed it to him.

"Drink," you commanded softly. "Small sips."

He took the bottle, his hand trembling slightly as his fingers brushed against yours. He drank slowly, letting out a long, shuddering exhale as he set the bottle down.

"Horrible race," he muttered, resting his elbows on his knees. "Felt like I was drowning in the car from lap twenty. My drink tube broke on lap five."

You gasped softly. "You drove fifty two laps in Singapore without water?"

"Yeah," he gave a faint, bitter chuckle. "Thought I was going to pass out under the second safety car. Had to force myself to keep talking to Will on the radio just to stay awake."

A sudden wave of intense protectiveness washed over you. You reached out, taking the ice towel from his hands, wringing out the excess cold water into the drain beside the crates, and then gently placed it over his burning forehead, patting his damp curls back.

Lando stilled completely under your touch.

He closed his eyes, leaning his weight forward until his forehead rested against the center of your chest, right over your heart. His hands came up, resting tentatively around your waist, his fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt as if to anchor himself against the dizziness.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The paddock was dead quiet around you—just the distant hum of air conditioning units and the soft sound of his ragged breathing. You didn't move away. You brought one hand up, resting your fingers gently at the base of his neck, feeling the fast, steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin.

"You're okay," you whispered into the quiet night, your fingers threading through the soft, damp curls at the back of his head. "It's over now. You got the podium. You're done."

"Stay," Lando mumbled into your chest, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction—not possessive, but desperate for stability. "Please. Don't go back to the press room yet."

"I'm right here," you whispered, resting your chin lightly on top of his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

For ten minutes, you stayed like that in the shadows behind the garage—a Grand Prix driver and a journalist, holding each other in the heavy Singapore heat until his breathing finally evened out and his skin felt cool against your touch.

By the time the european season reached its climax at Monza, the atmosphere between you and Lando had shifted into a zone that neither of you knew how to name.

It wasn't an open relationship — you hadn't kissed, nor had you spoken directly about what was happening. But it was felt by everyone who knew where to look.

It was the way Lando’s eyes always found yours first when he walked into a packed press conference room. It was the way you instinctively kept a seat open next to you in the media hospitality during long red-flag delays. It was the way he’d drop a quiet, inside joke into a television interview that only you would understand, watching your lips twitch from behind your notebook across the room.

It was professional, disciplined, and utterly suffocating in its restraint.

On Sunday evening after the Italian Grand Prix, the paddock was clearing out quickly as teams rushed to load freight for the upcoming flyaway races.

You were standing near the turnstile exit of the circuit, waiting for your ride-share to the Milan airport, when a black driver-service vehicle pulled up along the gravel curb. The rear window rolled down, revealing Lando. He had a black hoodie pulled over his head and dark sunglasses resting on his nose despite the setting sun.

"Get in" he said simply.

You glanced around the gravel lane. A few security guards were locking up the gates, but the press corps had already left on the official shuttle buses.

"Lando, I have an airport car coming—"

"Cancel it" he said, pushing the door open from the inside. "I'm going to Malpensa too. Private terminal, but my driver can drop you at the main terminal first. Save you thirty Euros."

You looked at the open car door, then down at your phone display, which showed your driver was stuck in Monza traffic ten minutes away.

"If anyone sees me getting out of a driver car at Malpensa..." you began carefully.

"Tinted windows" Lando replied, pulling his sunglasses down slightly to look at you over the frames with those sharp green eyes. "Come on. My legs hurt from sixty laps of heavy braking and I want company."

You yielded, sliding into the cool, leather-scented interior of the executive van. The door slid shut with a heavy vacuum seal, cutting off the dusty noise of the circuit outside.

The drive toward Milan was quiet. The sun was setting behind the Lombardy hills, painting the highway in deep shades of amber and rose. Up front, the driver was listening to low classical music on the radio, completely ignoring the back seats.

Lando slouched in his captain's chair, his knees bumped against yours in the narrow aisle. He reached out, casually taking your heavy laptop bag from your lap and dropping it onto the floorboards.

"You work too much" he murmured, his voice thick with tiredness.

"I have three column deadlines before midnight, Lando," you said, resting your head back against the leather headrest. "Some of us don't have private jets waiting to fly us home."

Lando didn't answer right away. He turned his head, staring out the darkened window at the passing trees.

"Come to Monaco with me" he said quietly.

The sentence hung in the air, heavy and sudden, mixing with the soft violin music playing from the dashboard.

You turned your head slowly to look at him. "What?"

"Come to Monaco" Lando repeated, turning back to face you. His expression wasn't playful or teasing; it was dead serious. "I have three days off before we fly to Japan. You can write your columns from my apartment. Nobody’s there. No paddock eyes, no press officers, no cameras."

Your stomach flipped, a dizzying mix of longing and fear rushing through your veins.

"Lando... you know I can't do that," you said, keeping your voice low and gentle. "If anyone found out I spent three days at your apartment between races, my credibility as a journalist would be completely destroyed. People would say every positive article I've ever written about you was biased."

Lando's jaw tightened slightly. He looked down at his lap, his fingers pulling at a loose thread on his tracksuit trousers.

"It is biased" he muttered softly. "You like me. I know you do. And I'm sick of pretending I only talk to you because you carry a microphone."

The raw honesty of his words hit you like a physical force.

"Lando..."

"I'm serious" he continued, turning his full gaze on you, his hazel eyes fierce with a frustration that had clearly been building for months. "I hate having to act like you're just another journalist when we're in the paddock. I hate watching other drivers try to flirt with you in the press bullpen. I hate that I have to wait until everyone leaves the room just to ask you how your day was."

"It's my career, Lando!" you whispered fiercely, leaning closer so the driver couldn't hear. "I spent seven years building a reputation in a male-dominated sport where women are already judged twice as hard! If I become 'Lando Norris's journalist girlfriend,' everything I've ever worked for gets erased. I become a headline."

Lando stared at you, his chest rising and falling heavily. The frustration in his eyes slowly dissolved, replaced by a profound, painful understanding.

He swallowed hard, looking away toward the window.

"I know" he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I know. I'm sorry. That was selfish."

Seeing the sudden wall go up between you broke your heart far more than any paddock rumor ever could. You reached across the small gap between your seats, wrapping your hand over his wrist. His skin was warm, his muscles tense.

"It wasn't selfish," you said softly, squeezing his wrist until he looked back at you. "It's just... hard. This world doesn't leave room for real things, Lando."

Lando looked down at your hand on his arm. He didn't pull away, but he didn't close the distance either.

"Then maybe" he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the tires, "this world sucks."

The Japanese Grand Prix at Suzuka was legendary for its atmosphere—fanatical crowds wearing homemade DRS hats, historic asphalt winding through the Mie mountains, and weather that could swing from blinding sunshine to torrential typhoons in thirty minutes.

It was Sunday afternoon, an hour before the race.

The paddock was a hive of intense, chaotic energy. Engineers were running tires to the pit lane, broadcast crews were setting up live cameras, and VIP guests were lining the paddock walkways hoping for autographs.

You were standing near the back of the McLaren garage, double-checking your media grid pass, when you saw Charlotte walking toward you with an anxious look on her face.

"Have you seen Lando?" she asked, glancing at her watch. "He was supposed to be in the driver parade line ten minutes ago, but he disappeared after the driver meeting."

You frowned slightly. "Did you check his driver room?"

"Locked," Charlotte sighed. "Jon said he went for a walk behind the old paddock building, but he's not answering his radio."

"I'll look for him," you offered instantly. "I know where he usually goes when he needs quiet."

You walked away from the high tech hospitality units, taking a narrow concrete pathway behind the historic circuit office buildings where the crowds couldn't reach.

Sure enough, sitting on a rusted metal staircase leading up to a storage room, sat Lando.

He was already in his full race suit, the top half zipped up to his collar, his helmet resting on the step beside him. He was staring down at his hands, his knuckles pale as he gripped his balaclava tightly.

"Lando?" you called softly, stopping at the base of the stairs.

He looked up sharply. When he saw it was you, his posture softened, but the tension in his face didn't fade.

"Charlotte's looking for you," you said gently, taking two steps up the stairs so you were standing just below him. "Driver parade starts in five minutes."

"I know" he said, his voice flat. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I just... needed a minute."

You looked at him carefully. You had covered enough races to spot the signs of intense pre-race anxiety—the silent tremor in the fingers, the tight jaw, the distant, unfocused gaze.

"Is the car okay?" you asked quietly.

"Car's fine" he muttered. He looked up at you, his green eyes searching yours with an intense, raw vulnerability that made your chest ache. "I'm starting P2. Max is on pole. The wind in Sector 1 is gusting at forty knots. If I mess up Turn 1... if I ruin the team's weekend again..."

"Hey," you cut in firmly, stepping up another stair so you were standing directly in front of him. "Look at me."

Lando paused, his eyes rising to yours.

"You are not going to mess up Turn 1," you said, your voice ringing with an absolute, unwavering authority that shattered his self-doubt. "You are one of the best drivers on this grid. You drove through rain at Silverstone, you survived fifty laps without water in Singapore, and you put this car on the front row at the hardest driver's track in the world."

Lando stared at you, his lips slightly parted, listening to every word as if it were a lifeline.

"You don't drive for the press" you continued softly, reaching out to lightly tap the McLaren emblem over his chest. "You don't drive for the headlines. You drive because you're Lando Norris, and nobody takes Turn 1 at Suzuka better than you."

A long, quiet second passed. The distant roar of seventy thousand fans in the grandstands echoed across the hills, but between the two of you, the air was entirely still.

Lando let out a long, trembling breath. The tension in his jaw relaxed. A small, slow smile worked its way back onto his face—not his public smile, but his real one.

"You're really good at your job, you know that?" he whispered.

"I told you," you smiled back, your eyes warming. "I'm accurate."

Lando stood up from the metal step, picking up his helmet. He stood a stair above you, making him taller than usual. He looked down at you, his expression shifting from anxiety to something deep, quiet, and profound.

He reached out, his hand gently settling at the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. The touch was so tender, so full of unspoken emotion, that tears pricked the backs of your eyes.

"Thank you" he murmured softly.

"Go drive fast, Norris," you whispered, leaning your face slightly into his touch before he pulled his hand away.

He gave you one last, bright look, pulled his balaclava over his head, and headed down the stairs toward the noise of the pit lane.

The final race of the twenty four race calendar was always a strange mix of relief, exhaustion, and quiet nostalgia.

The Yas Marina Circuit was bathed in twilight, the iconic hotel structure glowing in shifting shades of purple and pink against the dark Persian Gulf sky. Fireworks were already being set up on the marina docks for the post-race parties.

The championship was decided, the season was over, and the paddock felt lighter, looser, as if a collective weight had been lifted off two thousand shoulders.

You had submitted your final race analysis article at eleven in the evening. Your bag was packed, your media pass was sitting on your desk, and your flight back to London was scheduled for six the next morning.

You walked out of the media center for the last time that year, taking a slow stroll down the quiet paddock lane.

As you passed the back of the McLaren hospitality, a hand reached out from between two freight containers, gently pulling you into the quiet shadow between the trucks.

Before you could gasp, you smelled his familiar scent—fresh rain, hotel soap, and charcoal cotton.

Lando was standing there, wearing an oversized black hoodie and grey sweatpants, his hair damp from his post-race shower. He had finished on the podium again tonight, closing out his best-ever Formula 1 season.

"You scared me" you breathed, leaning back against the metal wall of the container.

"Sorry" he whispered, though he didn't step back. He stood close, his body blocking you from the view of anyone walking down the main lane. "Saw you carrying your bag out. Thought you were going to leave without saying goodbye."

"I was going to text you," you admitted softly.

Lando looked down at you, his green eyes capturing the ambient neon light of the Yas Marina hotel. He looked rested, relieved, and entirely present.

"Season's over" he said quietly.

"It is," you agreed. "Twenty four races. We survived."

"No more press conferences for three months" he continued, taking a step closer until his chest was inches from yours. "No more media bullpens. No more official interviews."

Your heart began to race, a familiar, exquisite tension filling the narrow space between you. "Lando..."

"No more off the record quotes" he whispered, reaching out to wrap his fingers gently around your wrist, lifting your hand to rest against his chest, right over his beating heart. "Just us."

You looked up into his eyes, feeling the steady, warm rhythm beneath your palm. All the arguments about professional boundaries, all the fear of paddock gossip, all the rules you had carefully maintained for seven years suddenly felt small and distant compared to the truth of the man standing in front of you.

"Lando," you murmured softly, "what are we doing?"

"I don't care about the headlines anymore" Lando said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper that resonated in your bones. "I cared about keeping you safe from the noise. But the noise is gone now. And I'm not going to spend another season pretending I'm not completely in love with you."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The world seemed to stop spinning.

"Lando..."

"I have been in love with you since Silverstone" he confessed, his thumb tracing soft circles on your wrist. "Maybe even before that. Every time I get in the car, every time I stand on a podium, the first person I want to talk to is you. Not because you're a journalist. Because you're you."

Tears blurred your vision, warm and sudden. You lifted your other hand, resting your palm against his cheek, feeling the soft warmth of his skin.

"I love you too," you whispered, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them — a truth that had been living in your heart for months, finally given air. "God, Lando, I've loved you for so long."

A radiant, beautiful smile broke across Lando's face — the purest, happiest expression you had ever seen on him.

He didn't hesitate. He leaned down, his hands coming up to gently frame your face, and brought his lips down to meet yours.

The kiss was slow, deep, and filled with the built-up longing of an entire year spent sitting across from each other in crowded rooms, communicating in secret glances and quiet whispers. It was warm, real, and utterly realigning — the sharp, high speed chaotic world of formula 1 melting away into the absolute stillness of his arms around you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his hands sliding down to wrap securely around your waist, holding you close against his chest.

"Come home with me" he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "To Monaco. Not as a journalist. As my girl."

You closed your eyes, letting out a soft, happy laugh that turned into a quiet sob of relief against his shoulder.

"Yes," you whispered, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his collarbone. "Yes. I'm coming home with you."

Lando held you tighter, resting his chin on top of your head as the fireworks over the Abu Dhabi marina exploded in golden light above the paddock, painting the night sky in brilliant, celebratory color.

Three months later.

The winter break in Monaco was silent. The superyachts in the harbor rocked gently against their moorings, the streets of Monte Carlo were free of grandstand construction, and the Mediterranean sea was a quiet, glassy blue under the cool January sun.

In a modern apartment overlooking the water, the living room was filled with warm sunlight.

You were sitting on the long, cream-colored sofa, wearing an oversized grey hoodie that belonged to Lando, your laptop resting on your knees as you finalized a preview feature for the upcoming car launch season.

From the kitchen, the sound of a coffee machine whirring signaled that breakfast was almost ready.

Lando walked into the living room holding two mugs of coffee. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a messy head of curls, looking relaxed, tanned, and completely at peace.

He set the mugs on the coffee table and dropped down onto the sofa beside you, pulling your feet into his lap and wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you against his side.

"Still writing?" he murmured, leaning over to kiss your temple.

"Just finishing the McLaren preview" you said, smiling as you saved your document. "I'm trying to decide what to write about your new driver training regime."

Lando leaned over your shoulder, looking at your laptop screen. He read the headline you had drafted:

'Norris Enters New Season with Quiet Confidence and Unshakable Focus.'

He chuckled softly, resting his chin on your shoulder, his arm tightening around your waist.

"Is that accurate?" he asked playfully.

You turned your head, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips before pulling back to look into his bright green eyes.

"Off the record?" you whispered.

Lando smiled — that private, beautiful smile that was yours and yours alone.

"Straighten up, Charlotte, you are slumping terribly," you whispered through gritted teeth to your younger sister.

The ballroom remained just as stifling even after a year of having vanished from high society. The principal difference from last time was that now, you not only had to contend with the sweltering heat of a crowded room, but you also had to hold your head high beneath the lingering gazes of practically the entire English gentry.

Charlotte’s debut had been flawless, considering the predicament in which your family now found itself. Or rather, what was left of it.

Following your father’s imprisonment on charges of high treason, you were left with nothing. The Crown had seized the property held in his name, forcing your mother to hastily seek shelter with one of her brothers. His standing was by no means as affluent as yours had once been, but as things stood, none of you were in any position to utter a single complaint.

Your mother had been fiercely proud about adhering to the plans laid out from the very beginning, even if you had failed to marry within the allotted time; Charlotte would make her debut right after you, and Mary would follow the next year upon coming of age. Now you had to share the season's activities with your younger sister and pray to whichever gods existed that she would not suffer the same fate as you.

Of Anthony, you knew nothing. He had vanished a little under a year ago, toward the end of the previous social season. Just as the gossip columns had gloated, he had dissolved into the summer wind without a word of warning, leaving you with your heart in pieces and your family in ruin.

Not only had he destroyed your reputation, but you had also hoped that, upon marrying, he would be gracious enough to allow your family to reside on the same estate where you lived, rescuing them from destitution. Yet you learned with great sorrow a week after the initial turmoil that his disappearance had not been due to pressing, honorable matters.

Anthony Wesbury had simply abandoned you.

"I am standing straight," Charlotte whispered back urgently. "I cannot breathe in this dreadful corset—how do you bear it?"

"You could breathe far better if you stood properly," you hissed back in a whisper.

Your mother stood just a few paces away, likely attempting to reconstruct a respectable reputation for her daughters. You adored her; the way she stood resolute before the masses for the sake of securing a future for her children was admirable, and you could only hope to measure up to her strength—if you were ever permitted to marry after the whole ordeal with Anthony.

Your chest still heavy with grief every time his memory crossed your mind.

"Would you care for a bit of sparkling wine? It will relax you," you whispered to Charlotte. She seemed to notice your slightly softened demeanor and nodded.

"Please."

You rested a reassuring hand upon her shoulder before weaving your way through the crowd, signaling your brief departure. You needed to locate a servant carrying refreshments to ease your sister’s frayed nerves.

You had not received a single proposal of marriage. It was only to be expected. At the very least, Charlotte had a gentleman or two casting admiring glances her way. It was a true relief.

"My lady," a voice called out, drawing your attention. Turning around, you found one of the chaperones standing tall before you with a polite smile. "Sir Norris requests your presence."

Sir Norris. The host of the ball, whom you had not yet had the pleasure of meeting. You furrowed your brow slightly. Why would he wish to see you specifically? And in private?

"Follow me, if you please."

Yet curiosity had always been your greatest flaw.

You followed the man in silence, gliding through the crowd into the foyer, where he guided you down a quiet, deserted corridor. He opened the door to a private chamber and gestured for you to step inside with a slight bow.

What met your eyes inside made your blood run cold.

There stood Anthony Wesbury himself, dressed in his customary fine attire. You felt your heart sink into your stomach. Every impulse within you urged you to lunge at him—to strike him, kick him, scream, weep, and then kiss him.

You were only snapped out of your daze by the sound of the door closing behind you.

"My lady," he greeted softly, bowing. He wore no smile; his expression was entirely grave. A light stubble had grown over his jaw, making him look unfairly handsome.

And you loathed yourself for still finding him handsome.

"What is the meaning of this?" you demanded, your voice utterly devoid of emotion, though you were certain the expression of horror on your face spoke far louder than any words could.

You had anticipated any number of ways for the evening to end, except this. Except finding yourself face-to-face with your former fiancé.

"My apologies," Anthony replied simply, eliciting a bitter, amused huff from you.

"How ought I to address you, Sir?" you asked with guarded coldness. "I was informed that Sir Norris required my presence."

"[Name]..." he began gently before letting out a sigh.

"It is at least a relief to know you are alive rather than lying dead in a ditch," you said, unable to bite your tongue any longer. "Which was precisely the impression your disappearance gave me last year."

"I regret leaving in such a manner," Anthony said carefully. "However, I had reasons... sound reasons."

"And would you care to explain those reasons?" you interrupted, holding your chin high. "I believe a former near-fiancée deserves to know. It is the least she is owed."

You watched him nod slowly and cast his gaze downward for a few seconds, undoubtedly bracing himself to speak the truth.

"My name is not Anthony Wesbury," your chest hollowed with anguish, yet you maintained your composure. "It is Lando Norris. And I am no viscount of any estate; I serve as a spy for the Crown."

His words left you utterly paralyzed for several seconds as you struggled to process what you had just heard.

"I beg your pardon?" You blinked, staring at Anthony—or Lando?—with a furrowed brow and eyes brimming with tears. Had it all been a lie?

"I was forced to conceal my identity to protect the integrity of the mission I was assigned," Lando explained hastily upon seeing the look on your face. "And I assure you, that is the only thing upon which I have deceived you, my lady."

"The only thing?" you repeated, your voice trembling. "Can you truly swear that your intentions toward me were genuine?"

You watched him hesitate for a fraction of a second and let out a humorless laugh, turning your face away to hide the stray tear that escaped your eye. You could not endure this. Not now, not after all this time. You were not prepared to see him again. You were not certain you ever would be.

"Your father was accused of high treason against the Crown," Lando said softly. "That was my doing."

You whipped your head back toward him, utterly stunned.

"Not only have you ruined my reputation, but you have also managed to leave my family in complete destitution," you gasped, breathless with indignation.

"[Name]," Lando called out sternly. "Your father was discovered using his fleet to forge illicit agreements with enemies of the Crown. He played both sides to elevate his financial standing, and there is no offense more severe. I uncovered the evidence within his library—"

"So you used me," you whispered, your voice shaking. Just when you thought nothing could further shatter your perception of him.

You watched him cross the room in two swift strides and carefully cup your face with both hands. His hands were broad, completely framing your cheeks, and you only allowed it because you had not reacted in time—and because you were weak. You were utterly weak for this man.

"I assure you that was never the case. I did not intend to fall in love with you," he murmured.

"How dare you speak of love?" you asked, deeply offended, in a trembling whisper.

"It is the truth." Lando gave you that look. That specific look. When his eyes grew soft, taking in every detail of your face, his pupils dilating from the sheer proximity. "That is why I returned. To offer you a solution. To repair the consequences of my actions."

"With all due respect, Sir," you snuffled softly. "I doubt you possess anything capable of repairing my family's ruin."

"Marry me," he cut in gently, sounding almost earnest. "Marry me as we agreed a year ago. Allow me to provide for your family. I shall place your mother and sisters on a fine estate and sustain them for the rest of their lives, if only you grant me your hand."

You let out a shaky breath, your mind reeling. This man had placed your father behind bars, condemned him under the highest crime in the land, destroyed your reputation, and plunged your family into misery. He had abandoned you when you needed him most, fashioning a false identity simply to gain access to your world.

And yet here he stood, offering a remedy. He was before you, offering apologies—the very man you had dreamed of for countless agonizing nights since his departure.

"Allow me to mend what I broke," Lando urged quietly. "And permit me to prove to you that I speak the truth. That I have been devoted to you since the moment I first saw you conversing with those dull gentlemen. That no other lady evokes such devotion in me as you do."

You furrowed your brow, quietly pulling your face away from his reach, forcing his hands to drop with a troubled, anxious expression.

"With all due respect, Sir, I no longer know who you are," you said, taking a step back.

"But you do," Lando persisted. "Only my name has changed. Everything else I ever shared with you remains true. All of it."

You shook your head, wiping away your tears.

"I can understand your sense of honor and your duty to the Crown. But it cost my father his freedom and robbed my family of their happiness and stability," you whispered, placing distance between the two of you once and for all, knowing you could not trust yourself with him so close. "Your actions speak far louder regarding where your allegiance lies. And I respect that," you nodded softly. "So I ask that you please stay away from me."

"[Name]—" Lando attempted to reach out, but you recoiled from his touch and fled the room immediately, leaving him behind in the dark.

That night, following the ball, sleep evaded you entirely. Nor did it come the nights that followed.

Your thoughts returned relentlessly to the same man—the one you had sworn you no longer desired. His offer refused to leave your mind; you became a mere shadow of your former self, your gaze distant during breakfast, barely present as you chaperoned Charlotte to various functions and assemblies, though you spent most of your days sequestered in your uncle’s estate tending to Mary.

Now more than ever, the scrutinizing eyes of society repulsed you, especially considering how easily your own gaze strayed, searching the crowd for the familiar silhouette of a certain gentleman.

Over the following week, you etched his true name into your mind. Lando Norris. You reminded yourself over and over that Anthony Wesbury did not exist—that the man you had once longed to marry was nothing more than a polished facade concealing an empty core. Who was Lando Norris? What did he do with his life when he was not adopting false identities across London to capture criminals?

Was the family he so fondly spoke of even real? His younger sisters, his elder brother. His parents. You wondered how much of what he had told you had contained any truth at all.

You also wondered whether you would have acted differently had you noticed his true intentions sooner. If you had connected the dots, if you had taken more notice of his uncanny ability to vanish so swiftly into a crowd, or how he casually lost his way inside your own home on both occasions he had been invited. Of course! It had all been a charade. But would you truly have done anything differently?

"What weighs so heavily upon your mind, my child?" You were abruptly roused from your reverie by your mother’s voice.

You looked dreadful, with dark circles beneath your eyes from the lack of rest and unkempt hair. Your eyes felt heavy and burned, a mere side effect of your sleepless nights.

"It is nothing," you chose to reply.

You did not wish to burden your mother. What would she do if she knew of Lando? She would undoubtedly be horrified, and she already had enough to bear managing household duties at your uncle's estate and navigating high society whenever Charlotte had an engagement.

It was high time you handled matters as an adult.

"You have slept very little," she said softly, caressing your cheek.

"I have found it difficult to sleep this past week," you admitted in an equally low voice, offering a slight shrug.

"I shall brew you some chamomile tea after dinner to help you rest," your mother offered. You nodded, forcing what you hoped resembled a smile.

Your uncle chose that precise moment to step into the main parlor. Both you and your mother rose from your seats; your uncle offered you a slight look of disdain owing to your unkempt appearance, though he said nothing. Instead, he simply extended a letter to your mother. It was already opened, sealed with red wax, and addressed to your mother by her full name.

"A letter?" She took it into her hands, unfolding the parchment to read its contents.

You watched her in silence, taking in the sudden look of astonishment on her face.

"What is it?" you broke the silence, unable to help yourself as you stepped closer.

"It is an invitation," your mother said in a trembling voice, "to a meeting to discuss a financial matter concerning Charlotte and Mary’s future."

You furrowed your brow.

"What does that mean?"

You took a seat in a corner of the drawing room, one leg carefully crossed over the other, an unread book resting idly on your lap. Your mother entered, followed by your uncle and a gentleman you did not know in the slightest, carrying a dark briefcase of expensive leather.

The reply arrived the following day after lunch. Your mother and uncle had sent a letter back, eager for the meeting to take place as soon as possible. You begged your mother to be part of it—wanting to finally understand firsthand what was happening financially—and your request was granted.

"Sir Vance, ma'am. I appreciate you receiving me on such short notice. I am aware that your family’s circumstances have been complex... to put it respectfully." The man took a seat on the sofa and placed the briefcase beside him.

"Let us get straight to the point, sir. You must understand we have no time to waste, least of all for debt collectors." Your uncle, ever so charming, cut him off swiftly.

"I assure you my intentions are not to collect."

You sat up straight in your chair while your mother clutched her handkerchief as the man opened his briefcase.

"I am aware that your position does not allow for a lawyer. That is why my firm has drafted these documents with the utmost clarity, so they require no expert interpretation," the man stated frankly, arranging the papers.

That was the moment you decided to intervene, standing up from the armchair to step forward.

"You will forgive me, but an attorney showing up with clandestine papers is the first sign of a scam. On whose behalf are you presenting yourself, Sir?" you demanded.

"[Name]," your mother said sternly.

The man blinked upon seeing you before his expression relaxed, as though he recognized you.

"Distrust is only natural in your position," he said carefully. "However, the law forbids me from disclosing the identity of my client." You frowned upon hearing this.

"And what law would that be?" you inquired.

"The law of trusts." Your mother covered her mouth, and you wished to ask what that meant without appearing foolish.

"A trust? No one gives anything away without a motive. On whose behalf do you come?" your uncle asked, far more aggressively.

"My client is a man of great standing. In the past, he incurred a profound debt of gratitude and business with your late father—an obligation he was never able to settle during his lifetime," he said with a touch of regret. "My client has no wish to meddle in matters of the Crown. Nevertheless, his conscience will not permit him to allow the consequences of those events to fall upon the ladies of this house. Therefore, he has established an irrevocable trust in favor of the two younger sisters."

"How much money are we talking about?" Your uncle stepped forward.

"The fund consists of an annuity of four hundred pounds per year."

You heard your mother sob at the man's words. You, on the other hand, were stunned—doubtless just as your uncle was, considering neither of the three spoke.

"It will be issued in the lady's name," the gentleman gestured respectfully toward your mother, "in order to cover the maintenance and wardrobe expenses of her recently debuted eldest daughter, as well as to serve for the court presentation of the younger daughter when the time comes," he spoke softly. "Upon the marriage of each sister, a sum of five thousand pounds will be released for each as a dowry."

"This is ridiculous," you said then. "Five thousand pounds is a fortune, not merely a debt of gratitude. What is this gentleman demanding from us in return?"

"The only legal requirement is Mr. Vance’s signature as head of the household, and your mother’s as a witness. With that, neither the benefactor himself nor the Crown will be able to withdraw a single penny from said account. From that moment on, the money belongs to your sisters."

"It is perfectly legal, niece," your uncle interrupted, the astonishment and conviction in his voice suddenly making you realize this was no scam after all. "Your father must have done many favors in the past."

"Oh, my daughters..." your mother sobbed from the sofa, and you hurried to place a hand on her shoulder to try to soothe her.

You could feel the relief in her sighs, in the way she tried to stop crying.

Four hundred pounds was a rather generous sum just for your sisters' debut; it was enough so your uncle would no longer be in misery trying to feed four extra mouths that his annual income could not afford. Even you felt a surge of relief.

Still, the timing of it all left you deeply suspicious. Why now? you asked yourself silently while your mother and uncle signed the necessary documents.

"I have been authorized to deliver an advance of fifty pounds in Bank of England notes for this week's urgent expenses," the man pulled a thick envelope from his briefcase and handed it to your mother alongside a set of papers. "The remainder of the quarterly allowance will be available at the main branch this Friday, provided you present a copy of the contract."

The following weeks felt like a breath of fresh air. The atmosphere in your uncle's small estate had changed drastically; you had even noticed how his demeanor toward you all was different now. You couldn’t blame him—after all, your mother had put him in a tight spot when she urgently sent him that letter after their previous home had been seized and confiscated over matters of the Crown.

Not only had she shown up at his door with little warning, but you had also eaten his food and depended on his money for nearly a year. You could understand that someone in his position would only relax upon knowing he would no longer have to manage details like his nieces' clothes and expenses, beyond putting food on their plates and a roof over their heads.

It seemed to you that your mother had begun to glow differently as well, returning to her cheerful, lighter disposition and regaining her confidence in crowded ballrooms. Charlotte was delighted with her new collection of dresses, and Mary was more than thrilled about the upcoming season and the new art supplies your mother had bought her as a gift.

"Mary, would you mind opening the window a little?" your mother asked, lounging on the sofa while fanning her face.

She was lying down, one leg resting over the armrest, the summer heat leaving a sheen of sweat on her face. Charlotte was embroidering in the small armchair while Mary practiced on your aunt's pianoforte. You were sitting on a small chair by the bookcase, reading silently, simply passing the time the four of you together.

Mary let go of the piano to stand up and open the window. As a slight breeze of warm air drifted in, everyone heard her gasp in surprise. Looking over at her was instinctual, but she remained standing by the window in silence, an unreadable expression on her face.

"What is it?" your mother asked, stopping her fanning.

"What did you see?" Charlotte managed to ask just as everyone realized Mary wasn't answering.

"Sir Wesbury..." she stammered with a strange smile, while Charlotte got up to look out the window beside her.

It was as though the room suddenly turned ice-cold. Your mother bolted up from the sofa.

"What?"

The movement caused you to snap your book shut instantly, without the time or presence of mind to memorize the page you were on. You stood up from your chair at the exact moment one of your uncle’s servants entered the room with a small bow.

"Sir Lando Norris." You felt your stomach churn, feeling as though you might throw up your lunch.

Nothing in you was prepared for the moment he walked through the door, nor had you been given enough time to make an escape. You could hear the expectant silence in the room; both your sisters and your mother were stunned with surprise. After all, standing before you was not only your former fiancé after a year of silence, but he had also had the audacity to introduce himself by another name.

His real name.

And he looked so handsome and broken at the same time. The corners of his eyes were red, his expression tired and solemn, almost ashamed.

"Ladies," he bowed his head, followed by a chorus of delayed curtsies from your family. Sir Norris looked nervous. "I beg you to forgive my informal arrival, given the pressing matters of our past," he looked down, nervously handling an old piece of paper in his hands. "But I felt compelled to deliver something that belongs to you."

"Sir Wesbury—" your mother began, only to be harshly cut off by you.

"Norris," you said, the high pitch of your voice drawing the attention of everyone present, slicing through the air like paper. "The gentleman’s name is Lando Norris, Mother. Sir Anthony Wesbury does not exist."

Lando lowered his gaze with a bashful smile before looking at your mother, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"The lady is quite right," he said carefully. "I apologize for my eagerness; it prevented me from introducing myself properly. My name is Lando Norris, and I hold in my hands the deed to your late husband’s house."

The air rushed out of your lungs all at once, and you were certain your mother and sisters were just as confused, if not more so. You looked at them; your mother was barely breathing as she stared at Lando as if he were a ghost. Mary and Charlotte remained frozen by the window, unable to move.

"I deemed it appropriate to return it to you," Lando continued softly.

"Did you also deem it appropriate to lie to my face and my family's?" you interrupted, the words tumbling out so quickly they nearly choked you. The heavy silence that settled over the room was intoxicating. You looked at your mother. "Mother, this man was behind Father's imprisonment."

"A job," Lando interjected, taking a step forward, "that had to be carried out, if I may add. However, I was not involved in deciding his fate, madame. My sole task was to investigate."

You let out a quiet breath. This man had to have immense nerve to show up at your home once more as if nothing had happened. He had to be... desperate.

Your mother was completely silent, unable to speak, while your sisters simply looked between the two of you as though watching a phantom.

"If you will grant me my honesty, I can assure you with all my heart that what I feel for your daughter was never untrue," Lando’s voice did not waver as he spoke. "Which is why... by way of an apology, I strove to recover the deeds to your former home."

You scoffed, looking away to hide the urge to cry. He always had to complicate everything; he always had to make it harder. Why couldn't Lando Norris just disappear, just as he had in the beginning?

"The house is yours if you wish to return to it," Lando spoke quietly, "and you may keep everything you had from the start. The deeds are in your name."

Your mother pressed a hand to her chest before carefully sitting back down on the sofa. You knew how deeply this affected her; she had lost her husband and her reputation, forced to live with her brother and abandon everything that had once been hers.

And here was Lando, offering her a solution, just as he had done with you the last time you saw him a few weeks ago. You watched him glance down for a few seconds, hesitating before continuing.

"In return, I would like..." he cleared his throat, "...to resume my courtship of your eldest daughter."

"No," you said immediately, automatically.

"[Name]," Lando tried, using that stupid tone of voice that always managed to break your resolve. He looked exhausted, on the verge of collapsing, even.

It was so hard to stay firm in your decision when he stood before you in such an unusually fragile state. When you first met him, he was so flirtatious and confident, and now he was reduced to half the man he used to be.

But this was your family. It was your father who had been condemned to death because of Lando; it was your reputation that had been questioned, abandoned before the engagement. Not his.

"I said no," you repeated more sternly before grabbing your things and leaving the room.

You didn't look back, not even when your mother called after you.

You didn't want to keep looking at Lando's face; you didn't want him to keep doing things to win back your affection.

Because deep down, you knew it was working.

By the time you returned, it was your mother who was losing hers. Lando was nowhere to be found.

You took a long walk around your uncle's lands until it began to darken. You knew it had been a bad idea to leave your mother and sisters entirely alone with Lando, but you needed to think. As if that wasn't what you had been doing for the past few weeks already. You spent so much time inside your own head that you felt if you processed one more thing, you would lose your mind.

"Don't you ever disappear like that again! I was worried about you; it's late," she said, a hand over her chest.

You brushed past her to head upstairs toward the bedchamber you shared with your two sisters. You said nothing, and neither did she. Even Mary and Charlotte left the room as soon as you arrived and threw yourself face down into the pillows.

There was a huge part of you that wanted to ask, wanted to know what had happened while you were away, wanted to know what your mother and sisters thought about it all. However, the part that wanted nothing to do with Lando weighed heavier, even if it was smaller than the rest.

"If you keep overthinking, you'll give yourself a migraine." You pulled your gaze from the wall to look at your mother, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed.

For a moment, you had thought she was angry—perhaps over the whole business with Lando, or the fact that you had fled and left her to deal with a man who wasn't her responsibility, only to return hours later with your dress caked in mud and your hair a ruined mess.

But her voice was gentle. She looked at you as if she understood what you were going through, and you allowed her to sit on the edge of the bed while you turned over onto your stomach to stare at the ceiling.

"I can't stop thinking," you confessed in a whisper.

"What are you thinking about?" she questioned, and you let out a breathless chuckle, as if it weren't obvious.

"About Sir Norris," you sighed. Your mother said nothing for several seconds.

"Why didn't you let me know sooner that he had returned?" she asked carefully. "All that he had done."

You turned to look at her and shrugged.

"I suppose I didn't want you to have to deal with it." You frowned, unsure if that was the real reason you hadn't told her. "Sir Norris was my fiancé... I suppose I felt it was something I ought to face alone."

"The matter of Sir Norris is larger than you," your mother said softly. "You shouldn't bear that weight. Not alone, at least. You are still young, and you are still my daughter. You are under my care."

"But I shouldn't be," you sighed, looking away. "I should be under the care of my husband... had I made better choices. Had I wished to marry some other tedious lord or viscount of somewhere." You turned on your stomach once more, restless, hiding your face in your arms.

Your mother formed a faint, amused smile upon hearing you.

"But that is not what you want."

You raised your head to look at her, half-hidden, and it took you a few seconds to come out with the truth.

"No," you sighed again.

"You love him," your mother blurted out suddenly, and you rolled your eyes.

"Love is... a word that evokes far too strong a feeling," you said, evading the point.

You heard her huff with amusement.

"Very well," she conceded with a nod. "But at least you like him."

You pressed your lips together, lowering your gaze back to the embroidered details of the bed cover. You didn't answer; you didn't want to admit aloud what had been your greatest fear and the reason you had been in constant turmoil ever since Lando reappeared.

It would have been so much easier had you felt nothing for the man, or perhaps if he hadn't been so attractive and so charming. If he hadn't been precisely your type. Rejecting him would have taken far less effort; you would have moved on.

"Do you know how difficult it is to actually like your future husband?"

"Lando Norris is not my future husband," you answered almost instantly.

Your mother looked at you sternly for a few moments.

"But he was. And you liked him then, and you still like him now," she insisted, and you sighed, nodding. "I never liked your father."

You swallowed hard, feeling a small ache begin to hollow out your chest. That was... something you had suspected for a very long time. Your parents had always been cordial with one another, but you were no fool to think that in the society you lived in, a woman had the luxury of always choosing her partner. Most of the time, parents or wealth were factors that carried far more weight than true love—or even basic attraction.

Even so, hearing your mother openly state that even after years of marriage she had never learned to like your father was... difficult. Never as difficult as living through it, of course.

"I am not so sure he liked me very much either," your mother let out a soft laugh. It sounded sad to you, but even if you searched her face, she didn't look on the verge of tears. It was a reality she had accepted long ago. "We both thought we would grow accustomed to it as the years passed. But the only thing that kept us together was you girls."

You swallowed again, trying to push down the knot forming in your throat, your breathing turning uneven from the urge to cry right then.

You watched your mother hesitate for a few seconds before she looked you straight in the face.

"I have never wanted any of you to settle for a merely cordial marriage," she said softly. "I would not want your fate to be like Caroline's."

The memory of your eldest sister was painful and relieving all at once. Caroline had disappeared shortly after her wedding. Your mother had grown increasingly frantic as the months passed without receiving a word or a visit from her. Nearly seven months went by before she deigned to write back. It was short, concise. She rejoiced in her good standing, her happiness, and her health, but mentioned it was impossible for her to visit her family as she was far too busy with household duties.

Shortly after, you discovered it had been her husband writing the few letters you ever received.

"I do not want you to accept just any gentleman simply because he is not Lando," your mother shook her head gently, her brow furrowed. "I want you to accept Lando if that is what your heart truly desires."

"I don't know if it's what I truly desire," you lied half-heartedly, sitting up a bit so you could speak properly. "He lied to my face, Mother. He was planning things behind my back, used me coldly to get what he needed, and then left."

"And now he has returned," she replied. "And he is giving back everything he took from us because he wants us to be happy."

"Everything except my father," you said almost immediately. Your mother's face relaxed, looking at you with a touch of sternness.

"Do let me know when a man manages to find the cure for death," she teased softly, and you rolled your eyes.

"You know that's not what I mean," you muttered, hiding back in your arms.

"Your father made poor choices, [Name]," your mother said firmly yet gently. "If we ended up where we are, it is because of his actions, not those of any other gentleman."

"Are you truly defending him?" You raised your head again, frowning at her.

"Are you truly defending him?" she returned the question with raised eyebrows. "If we put them on equal footing, your father also lied to my face and used me to get what he wanted. He lied to you too; he lied to this family. And his actions condemned him to death."

You pressed your lips together as you listened, because you hadn't stopped to think about everything your mother had endured. You hadn't paused to ask her how she felt about the whole affair with your father; you had simply assumed she was... shattered.

"I do not want you deciding for me how I ought to feel," she murmured affectionately. "I learned to care for your father, but he always loved money more than his family. It was always enough for him that you girls married noblemen who could match the wealth he put over your heads."

"I am sorry," you muttered, before your mother reached out and tenderly stroked your cheek.

"It is quite all right if you do not wish to give Lando another chance. I am certain there will be some other brilliant gentleman whom you like just as much, if not more," she said. "But I also do not want you to feel shame for truly caring for him. If you wish to marry him, your reputation will be restored, and you will be with a man who moved heaven and earth to return to your mother the property that was rightfully hers."

You smiled faintly upon hearing her. That more or less summarized how things had settled regarding Lando on her end and with the rest of your family.

"So... will we return to London?" you asked.

"We will return to London," she confirmed. "Of course I desire the comfort of my own home. I detest living with my brother and spending his money."

You nodded, biting your lip softly.

"And what do I do if I don't know what to do?" you murmured.

"First, be honest with yourself," your mother said firmly. "Do you want him?"

You sighed, and it took you a few moments to say it out loud.

"I want him," you finally managed to say. "And I hate that I like him so much—that he has... everything I ever thought I wanted."

The expression on your mother's face softened with sympathy, and she ran her fingers through your messy, untamed hair.

"And I also hate what he did."

"That is entirely valid," your mother agreed with a nod, continuing to smooth your hair. "You and I both know it is no small thing."

You nodded as well.

"I was so hopeful about marrying him," you said in a thread of a voice, full of sorrow. "And now I feel as though, once again, I don't know who he is."

Your mother nodded in silence, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You can get to know him again," she whispered, "and then decide whether he is worth it or not."

You nodded quietly, resting your cheek on your hands as you weighed your options.

"Though you will have to wait a bit for that. Sir Norris informed us he would be departing early tomorrow morning back to London."

"Oh," slipped from your lips unintentionally, a tinge of disappointment in your voice. "But we are returning to London as well."

"Not tomorrow, however," your mother said with a serious face. "We must pack our belongings once more and restock the house."

"Yes. You are right, I am sorry." You hid your face in your arms once more.

At least you would have enough time to think about how to speak to Lando again. Your mother looked at you with warmth and leaned in to kiss your forehead.

"Try to get some sleep, and stop torturing that little head of yours," she said before leaving your room.

Unlike the frantic manner in which you had left in the first place, you realized there was no real hurry to return this time. You were the only one rushing, eager to move time forward as quickly as possible so you could visit Lando and talk. It seemed that with each passing day, you felt a growing sense of urgency, even though you hadn't even wanted to see him at first.

The only thing you hadn't counted on was that moving back would take so long. It took nearly two whole weeks to settle back into the house.

The truth was, your mother had opened your eyes just enough for you to realize that you had to take action before it was too late—before Lando grew tired of persisting or waiting. And you realized with horror how deeply it terrified you to think he might have left Croydon because he had given up on you.

Not only had the journey been long and tedious, but your mother also kept you occupied for days, helping restock the house, scrubbing every corner, organizing the kitchen, rearranging the furniture, and helping cook at least two meals a day. Given the state of her reputation and finances, hiring servants again was out of the question, but that mattered least of all. Even in times like these, something as mundane as cleaning or cooking made you feel closer to your sisters than when you were fitting dresses and squabbling over them.

By the time you finally found a moment of free time, you remembered that the only place you knew of Lando was where he had been staying while still using the name Anthony Wesbury. Yet no matter how many letters you drafted and sent, you received nothing in return. Not a single letter, nor a visit.

As the weeks dragged on, you sank deeper and deeper into gloom. Paper began to grow scarce, you went out less frequently to balls and social gatherings, and it seemed as though the name Lando Norris had simply vanished into thin air. Once again, as usual.

"Please come with me today," Charlotte insisted yet again, throwing herself onto your bed with dramatic flair.

"I don't much feel like going out today, Charlotte," you said softly, playing with the quill between your fingers as you stared at the blank sheet on your small, makeshift desk.

"Mother is insufferable, all the balls are far more entertaining with you there, and you know Mary cannot attend yet," she continued. "Perhaps Sir Norris will be there."

"You have no way of knowing that," you said listlessly.

"It's Almack's. Everyone will be there, and Mother says attending is strategic for our reputation," your sister said, fiddling with the fabric of your bedspread.

"Your reputation is fine. If I go, I shall probably ruin everything."

"Which is precisely why you ought to go," she urged again, her voice growing increasingly desperate. "Besides, I tell you, you will have a chance to speak with Sir Norris if he shows up."

"We haven't seen him in months," you murmured, "and you truly believe he will go to just any ball simply because I am present?"

"You must at least try," Charlotte murmured back, finally rising from the bed to approach you. "If it becomes well known that you are attending balls and events once more, there is still a chance he might crawl out from under his rock as well."

You sighed, allowing her arms to encircle you, and rested your head against her shoulder. You truly had no desire to endure a ball at that moment; it was difficult to feign a calm, pleasant demeanor when you felt as though you were slowly rotting away inside. Day after day, you were consumed by the thought that you had arrived too late, that you had delayed making the decision you ought to have made long ago.

Yet, even though you eventually agreed to go that time, Lando did not appear at the ball. Nor at the next, or the one after that. It mattered not that you attended the most prestigious operas or the liveliest dances of the season—once more, there was no sign of him anywhere.

And it was a tragedy, for with each occasion you tried harder with your attire, driven by the mere possibility of running into him again.

You were likely at your seventh consecutive ball of the month when you felt yourself on the verge of collapsing once more.

"Are you all right?" Charlotte took your arm, looking at you with concern. Lately, that was the only look your sister ever gave you.

You surely looked the way you felt: eyes red and glistening with unshed tears, your brow tired and faintly furrowed. It was as though your own ghost from a year ago had returned—that version of you mired in depression, a hollow shell of who you used to be, forced to show up merely to keep up appearances. The version of you that only Lando Norris could evoke.

"Yes," you managed to reply. The music was a bit too loud for your liking, and even its cheerful rhythm failed to lift your spirits. "I think I shall step outside for some fresh air," you announced with a sigh.

Charlotte frowned, but gave a brief nod.

"I'll join you in a moment," she noted, her face still wearing its now familiar look of worry.

It wasn't that you wanted to worry your family on purpose; it was simply hard to envision a future without Lando. Not only out of longing and desire, but also at the thought that his might have been the last proposal of marriage you would ever receive.

The night air was crisp as you stepped outside the venue, allowing a few tears to slip past at the weight of it all and the thread of your thoughts. You wiped them away with your gloved hands and began walking through the small garden in silence. There were not many people about—only a couple here and there, or small groups of gentlemen smoking pipes as they conversed.

You lost yourself in a slow stroll around the gardens, your fingers idly playing with the fabric of your gloves. The wind chilled your collarbones and the neckline of your dress, but at that moment, anything was better than being inside, where judgmental gazes fell upon you and the air felt so thick you began to sweat. Every sip of sparkling wine was merely another reason for people to whisper behind your back, and every misstep was coldly criticized. You hadn't even been able to dance with a single gentleman all evening, and you had already spent three consecutive hours in the same shoes, standing in the same dead spot in the room.

You kept walking in silence until the steady murmur of distant chatter faded away completely, leading you to a gazebo with a perfect view of the small lake outside the property. You sighed as you looked out at the calm water and the reflection of the moon, leaning your arms against one of its supporting pillars.

"Do you mind some company?" You startled in place, spinning around quickly toward the voice.

That all-too-familiar voice—slightly raspy and melodious.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, forgive me." Lando carefully extended a hand in apology as he slowly climbed the steps of the gazebo.

You could tell he was treading carefully around you, as though fearing that at any moment you might scream at him to go away. Perhaps Charlotte was right all along...

"You," you said, suddenly breathless. "You returned," you barely managed to utter.

It was a pity, considering how many times you had rehearsed what you would say in this man's presence, only to completely forget every single word the moment you shared the same space. Lando looked at you with a touch of sorrow; he looked only slightly more rested. His hair remained unruly, and there were dark circles under his eyes, you were sure of it.

"I had matters of great importance that required my attention," he said carefully.

"It is always matters of great importance that require your attention," you shot back immediately, turning your back to him once more. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him step up beside you with practiced ease.

"My sister," he began, catching your attention, "came to visit my parents' house and was taken ill in bed after giving birth to her first child."

"Oh," you stammered awkwardly. "I am so sorry. How is she?"

"Better," Lando nodded. "The birth caught us all by surprise, but her baby is just as healthy as she is now. We couldn't leave her side; my mother refuses to let the servants care for her grandson." You smiled fondly upon hearing this.

"It brings me relief to know she is well," you said gently, unsure of what else to say.

And it seemed Lando didn't know what else to say either, as both of you fell into a slightly awkward silence, side by side, taking in the view from the gazebo.

It took you a few seconds to gather the courage to speak.

"I hoped to see you sooner," you admitted, your heart hammering against your throat.

Lando seemed surprised by your words; he surely hadn't expected you to want to see him after everything.

"Did you?" He tilted his head slightly to look at you.

"I had no way of contacting you," you turned to look at him directly, a faint grimace on your face. "The place where I knew you were staying was vacant."

Lando turned his gaze away with a wry look.

"A residence under the Crown's name, lent for specific and important circumstances" a subtle way of saying the house was not his and that he had only used it for his mission.

You nodded, hesitating for a few seconds as you lowered your eyes to your dress.

"We moved back to London," you said carefully. "Thanks to you." You hated yourself a little for taking so long to say what you actually meant to say.

It was just that no matter if you had rehearsed it a thousand times, this man's imposing presence set your nerves on edge.

"You don't have to thank—"

"I do," you interrupted immediately. "And I should like to apologize as well. I have been nothing short of insolent toward you... I wish to acknowledge that we got off on the wrong foot," you pressed your lips together, "and I would like to reconsider our position."

Lando closed his mouth—which had remained slightly parted in surprise at your words—and stared at you in silence, waiting for you to finish, for he could tell from your posture just how much you had kept bottled up inside.

"I know you previously expressed your desire to resume the courtship. Is that still true?" you asked in a low, almost timid voice.

You could feel your ears burning and your face flush red. Lando lowered his gaze for a few seconds before reaching out and taking one of your hands in his. Then, beneath your feverish and startled gaze, he dropped to one knee.

"If you would permit it, right here and now I would express my fervent desire to be your husband." He took your breath away.

"None of that," you said instead, fully aware of Lando's pained expression. But before he could rise again in embarrassment, you added, "I believe there is still much we need to learn about each other." You held his hands tighter in yours. "I cannot promise to easily forget our shared past... but I can promise to try and get to know the real Lando Norris. Without any false identities between us."

You watched him nod; he looked broken. Exquisitely broken, even. There was nothing but surrender in his gaze, and an affection so profound it made your knees weak.

"Then I can promise never to lie to you again," he said.

"That would be quite fitting." You heard him let out a soft laugh that made you smile. Then he turned serious once more.

"All these months without you have been pure torment." Lando leaned in, kissing your gloved knuckles. You could even feel the stubble of a few days' growth prickling through the thin fabric. It was exquisite. "I beg of you to put an end to my misery."

You swallowed hard, blinking softly.

"Stand up, Sir," you murmured, watching him do exactly that. He didn't hesitate for a second before returning to his feet.

He was barely a head taller than you, but still noticeably taller.

You were unable to let go of his hands—or more precisely, he was unable to let go of yours as you cupped his face. His warmth continued to envelop you, even as you stood on tiptoe to kiss him. His mouth tasted of sparkling wine and hints of strawberries from the banquet, and he kissed you back like a man desperate and starved, like an addict who had been forced to stay away from his obsession for far too long.

"You are fortunate that my family approves of you," you growled against his mouth, and you felt him smile against you before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

"Was it Charlotte?" he asked.

"My mother."

"Even better," he smiled broadly, wrapping both arms around your waist and helping you turn as you clung to his neck. "It will make it easier to ask for your hand now that it's just her."

That made you turn instantly serious, and Lando consequently did the same, stopping and wiping the smile from his face.

"Too soon?"

"Far too soon. Do not make jokes about that again." You saw him make a bashful grimace.

"I am sorry."

"Behave yourself," you continued scolding him.

"I make no promises," he murmured against your mouth before kissing you once more.

The ballroom smelled faintly of sweat mixed with bubbly and an excess of men’s cologne. Perhaps it was due to your lack of interest, but you felt trapped in the single most boring conversation in existence—even considering that you used to attend the occasional meeting with your father regarding the naval fleets. Standing before you were two handsome nobles attempting to entertain you with a conversation about the rise in the wheat market over the past few weeks. It had even crossed your mind that discussing political decisions sounded far more amusing than anything these lords had to say.

You wished your sisters had been there to keep you entertained, but considering the eldest was already married and utterly forgotten, and your two younger sisters were not yet old enough to make their debut, it was entirely impossible.

Your own debut had been grueling. You had never worn a corset so tight for so long; you were certain the skin covering your ribs had been left bruised after the evening. But it had been completely worth it—thanks to that, you had incredible proposals and dashing gentlemen competing for your hand.

Pity none of them had been blessed with a lively, charming personality.

"If we allow foreign wheat to flood our shores, what will become of the landowners' honor?"

"An unimaginable tragedy, no doubt, Lord Danbury," you sighed, trying not to sound as flat as you felt. "I cannot imagine a cruel destiny for the nation than slightly cheaper bread for the common people."

Lord Danbury blinked, trying to decipher whether the comment was a display of refined knowledge or simply lethal sarcasm. He seemed to decide it was the former, for he offered a smug smile.

"I see the Duke has instructed you quite well in matters of true importance. I can only imagine a lady of your stature understands the weight of property."

You inhaled deeply, limiting yourself to just that, though all you wanted to do was sigh out loud from sheer boredom right in their faces.

"Believe me, my lord," you smiled, fluttering your feather fan to cool off the suffocating wave of tedium, "the weight of your properties is practically the only thing I have heard about since the evening began."

You glanced away for just a moment, indulging in the view of other prominent young lords. You wondered if any of them were even half as amusing as they were handsome, but assumed, looking back at Lord Danbury, that it was practically impossible.

Lord Harrington beside him, sadly, was no better. He was a brainless, cheap copy who spent his time nodding along and smiling every time you made even the slightest eye contact with him.

Your dance card at your wrist lay completely blank—an embarrassment considering how passionate you were about dancing, and a vile demonstration that your father had only introduced you to the most boring lords in the entire court.

You were beginning to calculate how much it would cost you to feign a swoon to escape the conversation when a shadow was cast over the three of you, forcing your attention back to the present. The sight of a third lord momentarily stole the air from your lungs—not only from surprise, but also from sheer cheekiness; a gentleman could not present himself before a lady without an intermediary to introduce them.

"My lords, I apologize for interrupting such an important and profound conversation about the price of wheat, but I fear I must kidnap the lady," he said, his tone warm and terribly amused.

"Kidnap me, sir...?" You placed a hand on your chest and instinctively accepted the glass of bubbly he was offering you with a smile.

This man was barely a head taller than you—not particularly tall, but infuriatingly attractive. He had skin that could only be sun-kissed, flawlessly styled, shiny curls, and emerald-blue eyes with enviable lashes. He took your breath away for a second time in a matter of moments.

"Wesbury. Anthony Wesbury, at your service," he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did, which you found to be the most wonderful thing. "May I?"

You looked down to where his finger was pointing. Your dance card, completely empty.

You puffed out your chest and extended your arm, allowing Anthony to write his name himself. You blushed furiously when you saw him hesitate and exhale a soft laugh before writing on the completely blank page. When he looked back up to meet your eyes, you had to resume fanning yourself with your feather fan, as the room was starting to feel suffocating all over again.

"It would be a true tragedy to ruin such exquisite music by choosing to remain among the stagnant crowd," his smile was directed at both lords, neither of whom had managed to offer you a single dance. "Will you grant me this dance, or would you prefer to keep hearing about the price of wheat?"

"You are dangerously impertinent, sir," you said, before placing the completely empty glass of bubbly onto a passing servant's tray and accepting Anthony's hand. "But you are quite right. The music is far too exquisite to be wasted."

You tried not to react when Anthony led you straight to the center of the dance floor, pulling you close in a swift movement with an arm around your waist. His hand was warm, large, and somewhat calloused, but it covered yours with ease, instantly giving you a sense of protection—even if you did not know this man at all.

You looked around, trying to see if anyone else was watching you dance. But both Lord Danbury and Lord Harrington were already nowhere to be seen.

"Is something troubling you, my lady?" Anthony asked to bring you back, which worked, as you looked back at him, a bit distracted. "Don't tell me you are thinking about something as banal as wheat again."

"Not at all, sir," you replied, following his steps. You were surprised by the ease with which he moved you across the floor to the rhythm of the orchestra. "I was simply looking for my aunt."

"Are you worried about being seen with me?" he inquired with a hint of mockery so subtle you almost missed it, were it not for the stupidly handsome grin on his face.

"I could expect nothing less after such insolence on your part, sir," you shot back, slightly on the defensive.

"On the contrary," he said with conviction as he spun you in place, "I highlight informality as the finest way to truly know a lady."

"Unheard of," you murmured between your teeth to hide the silly smile that threatened to make your cheeks ache.

"I fear that were it not for my lack of formality, you would not be interested," he answered carefully. "Or could you claim you wouldn't have found me to be just another boring lord from some boring estate had I approached with a chaperone?"

You allowed yourself a smile before replying, "I fear I cannot refute that."

You had to admit it: Anthony Wesbury was refreshing in an atmosphere as suffocating as a social and political ball. Your father had abandoned you to attend to other matters with the very first men who spoke to you, and your mother, seeing you occupied, had simply decided to stay out of it to let you socialize. You would have preferred your mother hovering over you, leading the conversation, over being left with two such dull men.

"Admit it," Anthony smirked, leaning in to whisper with a smile, "you were expecting another stiff-footed lord to step on your dress."

You let out a chuckle, knowing that Anthony actually moved remarkably well. There was a lightness to his steps that could only stem from confidence.

And what a thrilling thing confidence was in an attractive man.

"And instead, you are standing before the finest dancer in all of London." You raised an eyebrow at that, huffing with amusement.

"I admit your ego is as inflated as the dome of the royal house," you countered, earning a laugh from Sir Wesbury. "Though I must admit, my lord, you are quite light on your feet."

"Only that?" he asked, exaggerating his disappointment to make you smile. "Then I can only pray that merit works to earn me a proper compliment during our next dance."

"Next dance?" you inquired, feeling a blush creep up again.

"You couldn't have thought we would have such a disappointing end," Anthony spun you around once more, and you realized with horror that the waltz was drawing to a close. "When the most fun comes after the first."

"You must speak from experience," you said, narrowing your eyes with a smile.

"Do not be flustered, my lady," Anthony tilted his head to the side with grace. "I am just as much a newcomer to society as you are."

When the waltz finally ended, you stepped back from Anthony, your breathing slightly hurried. He bowed in your presence before disappearing into the crowd with the promise of your second dance.

Except Lord Wesbury did not show up for the rest of the night. And you did not accept any other dance for the remainder of the evening.

The following morning began as a total trial.

Perhaps it was the fact that it was your first social season, or perhaps you had drunk a bit too much sparkling wine—never enough to embarrass yourself publicly in a room full of people, of course—but you had woken up with a piercing headache. It didn't help that your two younger sisters attacked the moment the first rays of sunlight appeared. It was far too early, and you had returned far too late the night before, to endure a punishment of such magnitude.

"Did you meet many gentlemen?"

"Did you dance with any of them?"

"What did I tell you about bothering me so early in the morning?" you grunted, trying to press your face deeper into the pillow.

Mary, the youngest of your sisters, bounced onto the edge of your bed, making it tremble and squeak slightly under her weight.

"Did you?" she inquired, leaning over to catch a glimpse of your face.

"Did you drink?" Charlotte asked now.

You sighed before forcing yourself to sit up. Your head throbbed, and you rubbed your eye, still bearing traces of the makeup from the night before since you had collapsed straight into bed and forgotten to wash your face. When you were finally able to open your eyes without dying in the attempt, their faces were filled with eager anticipation for your answer.

"I met a few gentlemen. They were all boring, really—you aren’t missing out on anything," you answered, raising your eyebrows.

Charlotte huffed.

"Was at least one of them handsome?"

You looked away, recalling Anthony's face and his gorgeous emerald-blue eyes.

"Most of them," you answered instead, looking back at them.

"How many did you dance with?" Mary leaned forward on the bed, curious. You exhaled, bracing yourself for your response.

"Only one."

They burst into loud squeals and giggles before firing off a barrage of questions. Was he handsome? How tall was he? Was he funny? Did he dance well? You allowed them to ask every single question simply because they seemed so genuinely excited and intrigued.

"Is there any chance you’ll see him again today at Hyde Park?" Charlotte smiled.

Hyde Park was the most famous Royal Park in London. When there were no tea parties or organized gatherings, the elite would spend most of their time parading in their carriages to see and be seen, allowing high society ladies to be presented to interested gentlemen. You had been there a couple of times, and you remembered perfectly that your father had been invited to a garden party that very afternoon, to which he intended to bring you.

Whether you might cross paths with Anthony was a complete mystery. Besides, even if he were to attend, what were the odds he would actually speak to you again? After all, he had been perfectly clear the night before by failing to claim his promised second dance with you. You hadn't even seen him leave—no carriage, no chaperone.

It was as if he had simply vanished into the morning breeze.

"I don't know, Charlotte," you replied simply, looking away with a sigh. "I could only hope so."

Anthony Wesbury was not someone you wished to think about at this precise moment, nor did you want to grant him the satisfaction of occupying your thoughts—even if there was no way he could know. You preferred a thousand times over to worry about far more pressing matters, such as the garden party your father was invited to that afternoon, where you, of course, were also expected.

That was precisely the exhausting part of the social season: having absolutely no time to rest from so much interaction. The situation only worsened when you considered the significant role your father played in political affairs; after all, he owned the largest merchant fleet network at present and worked hand in hand with the Crown—one of the reasons he had been formally created a Duke. Your father’s high standing demanded that you attend every social event and live up to the status.

After luncheon, you found yourself obligated to prepare for the tea party with the help of your two younger sisters. They were far more excited than you were, which offered a bit of relief.

It was well known that debuting each sister separately rarely fostered sisterly harmony, but thankfully, that had never managed to divide your family—with the exception of your eldest sister, who had been married for two years and didn't even visit or invite them to her new home. It wasn't an obligation, of course, but you would have at least expected a little more warmth from the person who had helped raise you.

"You should wear the green one," Mary said, wrapping her arms gently around you and resting her chin on your shoulder to inspect the two dresses laid across your bed.

"It’s the color that flatters you most," Charlotte agreed with a nod.

The dress in question was an olive-green satin, plain save for the embroidered gold and white detailing. It featured puffed sleeves and an extra layer of sheer abaca fabric across the bust.

"Besides, it matches Sir Wesbury's eyes," you rolled your eyes at Mary’s teasing remark. Of course they would seize every subtle opportunity to bring up any detail you might have mentioned about him that morning.

You ended up choosing the green dress anyway. Your mother helped braid your hair while you applied a touch of makeup, and you left the house at precisely four o'clock in the afternoon.

"Hold your parasol firmly," your mother instructed, handing it to you in a hurried tone. "The wind might catch your dress, so you must be careful." She peered out the carriage window.

There was a heavy breeze under a dreadful summer sun.

"And keep your face and arms properly covered," she reminded you with a decisive tone. "Do not let the direct sun touch your skin."

You let out a silent sigh before offering a smile and a nod. The remainder of the journey passed in silence, and as the carriages pulled up after a long drive along Serpentine Road, you wanted nothing more than to step out. You were tired; the headache had subsided into a dull, annoying pressure between your brows, the sun was at its most suffocating point in the sky, and the breeze was hardly enough to offer relief—neither to you nor to any of the other ladies.

The first thing you noticed upon stepping out of the carriage were the long tables laden with refreshments. Pastries and sandwiches abounded, alongside steaming teapots, fine porcelain cups, cutlery, and sugar bowls placed at intervals. Your mother introduced you to a group of young ladies near your age who were chatting pleasantly around a small table. You caught sight of the gentlemen down by the lake, practicing archery while another group of ladies watched attentively.

You remained where you were, simply listening to the conversation without offering much input.

"One must admit the afternoon is turning out to be exceptionally pleasant. I feared this heat would melt the cream on the desserts, but the shade of these willows is truly a blessing," one of them remarked—you seemed to recall she was Miss Barrington, a young woman a few years your senior.

"A very timely blessing indeed. We were fortunate enough to secure the finest spot in the park," another lady’s mother chimed in.

The conversation soon shifted to the flavor of the pastries and the delicate care required in baking them, but you were already far too distracted by the scenery to pay close attention. Lately, everything felt so trivial that any conversation with your sisters was far more entertaining than upholding etiquette, yet you hadn't managed to make a single friend so far.

It was difficult, considering that most first impressions carried enough weight to keep everyone merely distantly polite toward one another.

"[Name], my dear, come here for a moment," you tore your gaze away from the lake to look back at your mother, who was approaching slowly alongside another gentleman.

It took you a few seconds to recognize Anthony.

His face and skin looked different in the sunlight; he appeared even more sun-kissed than you remembered. His eyes stood out strikingly against his attire, which was a pale, perfectly tailored blue. You forced yourself to press your lips together to keep your jaw from dropping as you bridged the remaining distance between you.

"The Viscount Ravenscroft was courteous enough to request an introduction. Sir Wesbury, allow me to present my daughter, Miss [Name]," you curtsied swiftly with a bend of your knees, biting the inside of your cheek.

"It is a privilege to finally meet you, Miss [LastName]," his smile made you grit your teeth slightly before offering a polite, false smile of your own.

"The honor is mine, Sir Wesbury," you bowed your head slightly, subtly twirling your parasol. You were just about to open your mouth to say something when Anthony cut in.

"Mrs. [LastName]," Anthony turned to your mother with a perfectly respectable smile, "the day is splendid. Would you grant me the honor of escorting your daughter to see the lake overlook?"

"Oh," your mother smiled, delighted, making no effort to hide her interest. "Of course. I shall follow just behind you."

Anthony offered a small bow and looked at you, gesturing with his hand to invite you to walk beside him. You moistened your lips, adjusted your parasol, and kept pace right beside him. Soon, you both reached the edge of the lake, embarking on a slow, relaxing stroll—technically alone.

"Did you not intend to mention earlier that you were the Viscount Ravenscroft?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at your mother, who was a few paces behind, taking in the details of the park.

"Would it have offered me any sort of advantage had you known beforehand?" he asked in return, with his signature smirk, leaning slightly in your direction.

"I beg your pardon? An advantage?"

"In the pursuit of your hand," Anthony explained softly, his voice gentle. You looked away to hide your flush.

"There is no such thing, sir," you whispered.

"Then allow me to express my delight," Anthony smiled, "in knowing that I am the only one."

You swallowed hard. His interest was no longer something you could ignore. You had never been courted so directly—in truth, you had never been courted at all—and the sensation was exquisite. Knowing that someone like Anthony, with his poise and standing, was interested in you brought an indescribable joy. Your stomach fluttered pleasantly every time he smiled with such confidence.

"A clever move," you managed to say, "presenting yourself to my mother as though you hadn't bypassed proper protocol last night." Bringing up the previous evening felt strange, considering he was still walking beside you with the promise of a dance he had never delivered. To say you were still a bit offended would be an understatement.

"I hope it is enough to demonstrate my intention to do things properly," he turned to look at you as you walked side by side, his hands clasped behind his back, your own hands clutching the parasol to shield your shoulders from the sun.

"You are halfway there, Sir," you said, matching his action and turning to meet his gaze for a brief moment. "But you still owe me a dance for last night."

"Regarding last night," Anthony stopped abruptly, forcing you to do the same and turn to face him. His hand hovered, uncertain whether he ought to touch you, while his face betrayed how deeply he wished to do so. "I must offer my most sincere apologies. Urgent matters of utmost importance compelled me to leave early. But I want you to know that I have not forgotten, and I still hope to grant you every dance you desire at the upcoming balls."

You felt the air leave your lungs as he finally reached out to take your hand delicately, leaning down to press a kiss to your silk-gloved knuckles. His lashes fluttered as he looked up at you.

"Apology accepted, sir," you murmured. "I expect you to keep your promise."

"Believe me, my lady. I have never broken a promise."

On the Monday of the following week, the gossip erupted in your home the moment you rose. Charlotte already held the newspaper—which encompassed all the news of the preceding week—and was reading it aloud with an almost exhausting effervescence. You took a seat across from her and poured a little warm milk into a glass.

"We regret to inform that Mr. Davenport was compelled to depart precipitously for the continent on this morning’s tide..." she read, her eyes flitting in haste across the front page, her voice dwindling to a hushed murmur.

Her sudden silence was troubling, prompting Mary, beside her, to lean over her shoulder to read. You blinked a few times, glancing first at your father, then at your mother.

"What is it, Charlotte, my dear?" your mother inquired.

"This column is about us," she said, her brow furrowed.

"What does it say? Read it aloud," she requested with a complacent smile.

"Disturbing rumors are indeed circulating regarding the fortune and future of the House of the Duke of Bristol"—you hid behind your glass as you watched your mother's smile begin to wither; your father lowered his own paper to pay heed—"it is whispered in the tea rooms that the distinguished Duke has spent an unusually prolonged amount of time with his bankers in the city—"

"Enough," your father cut her off in a frigid tone, and you saw Charlotte lower the paper, tense.

"What a vile and unnecessary accusation," your mother chimed in, her eyes fluttering with nervousness and restrained anger. "How are we to respond to such a rumor?" She turned back to your father, who uttered a humorless chuckle.

"How are we to respond?" he repeated. "A mere rumor, lacking both weight and truth."

"It is your daughter’s future that hangs in the balance with such slanders"—your father’s gaze fell upon you, and you decided to set down your half-full glass of milk to look at them both—"your daughters'" she corrected, looking at the three of you this time. "Do you truly believe any gentleman will hold interest in them if all of society suddenly begins to lend truth to such rumors?"

"And what do you suggest?" he inquired, giving a slight, barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders.

"We must host a ball." Your two sisters sat up straight with smiles upon hearing your mother’s decisive voice. "We cannot allow the integrity of our family to be insulted. Send letters this instant to all the noble families in the city."

Your mother puffed her chest with pride, and your father had no choice but to comply. He knew better than to simply refuse when she was set in such a mood.

Said and done, the date of the ball arrived two days later, and your home had been a tempest of chaos in anticipation of the event. Your sisters were beside themselves, obsessing over dresses; they even dragged you to Mayfair to purchase ribbons of the finest cloth, forcing you to sit and offer opinions while they tried on all manner of attire. You remained patient with them, for you knew this was the closest they would come to being in society for the time being, and how dearly they craved it.

You wondered if they would be just as weary and bored when their own turn arrived.

The havoc reigning in the kitchen and the main drawing room was no better than that within your bedchambers. Servant staff were shifting furniture to clear space, while cooks arranged pastries and delicacies across the tables. Men perched atop footstools to adorn the parlor drapes, and women scrubbed the floors.

It became painfully clear to you that attending balls was far more delightful than hosting them. Judging by the demeanor of both your parents, you assumed they had arrived at the very same conclusion.

"Is your Sir Wesbury invited to the ball?" Charlotte twirled in place to lift the skirt of her gown. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, yet your sisters had betrayed their eager anticipation by dressing far in advance.

"I saw to it that an invitation was sent to his estate," you offered with a gentle smile, only to be met by the gleeful squeals of your sisters. You could do little else but blush under the weight of such sudden scrutiny.

You had learned a great deal about Anthony during your promenade through Hyde Park, and you were utterly enchanted. He hailed from a family as large as your own, with two younger sisters and an elder brother who was already happily wed. He was twenty-six, born in Bristol, and you knew he had completed his studies at Oxford—a man deeply devoted to, and dearly cherished by, his family. You knew his sisters' names, and he knew those of yours. Moreover, he was undeniably charming and full of wit—or so he seemed to you, at least. Perhaps it was simply that he always knew precisely what to say to draw a reaction from you.

"I can hardly wait to meet him and pass judgment on your good taste," Mary remarked with a subtle smile as Charlotte braided her hair.

"I wager he is quite handsome," Charlotte chimed in, using that sly tone that signaled they were both attempting to coax more details from you.

Even though you had already disclosed almost everything.

"He is," you confirmed once more, beginning to brush your hair.

"Do you suppose he will speak with our father soon?" You raised your head to look at Charlotte, who had suddenly grown far more solemn, her question posed with careful hesitation.

A mere fortnight had passed since you first met Anthony, yet it was time enough to know his character; you had heard tales of ladies whose betrothals were sealed in even less time. Not to mention that he was attentive enough to frequent the very same gatherings and society affairs as you, whether by invitation or sheer fortune. If you were invited to a tea party, he was among the guests. If you attended the opera, he serendipitously occupied a box at the exact same performance. He had invited you to stroll beside the St. James's pond, to go boating, and had even invited you to paint together.

Anthony was the most attentive gentleman you knew.

"I do not rule out the possibility," you replied evasively, unwilling to tread upon uncertain ground.

"He would be a fool not to," Mary said, sensing your hesitation, which brought a soft smile to your lips.

All three of you were dressed and ready shortly before the guests began to arrive. Soon, the grand hall of your home and its spacious corridors were teeming with the finest high society—dresses of every hue, confections and dainties of every flavor, accompanied by the uplifting strains of fine music.

You were attempting to keep your sisters from depleting the pastry table too early when someone pinched the back of your arm. Surprised, you turned hastily, only to encounter a grinning Anthony. You cast a cautious glance about the room.

"Daring as ever, Sir," you murmured by way of greeting, curtsying before him.

"You know me well," he smiled, before casting his eyes upon your two sisters.

Both had promptly dropped their pastries to bestow their undivided attention, wearing smiles that were anything but demurely polite.

"Sir Wesbury. Allow me to introduce my two sisters, Charlotte and Mary," you offered, gesturing gently toward them. "Sisters, this is Sir Anthony Wesbury."

Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed from her effort to suppress a playful laugh. "It is an absolute pleasure, Lord Wesbury. We have heard your name spoken with such frequency that I feel as though I have known you all my life."

"Charlotte," you cautioned under your breath through a smiling mask.

"I trust the accounts were favorable, and that my introduction meets your expectations," Anthony replied smoothly, though his playful smirk did not escape your notice.

Astonishing. Simply splendid.

"Oh, utterly glowing!" Mary interjected merrily. "My sister has endlessly praised your lightness of foot and your ease in conversation." This statement visibly filled Anthony with pride, making him practically puff his chest.

"You stand before the finest dancer in all of London," he boasted, offering a sweeping little bow.

"Oh, is that so?" Charlotte teased.

"Prove it," Mary chimed in, her tone bright and full of playful anticipation. She giggled softly as Anthony extended a hand, which she delightfully accepted.

You watched them glide toward the dance floor, though not before Anthony sent a fleeting glance and a respectful bow your way—his subtle manner of reassuring you that it was a mere gesture of courtesy. You were not troubled in the least; it was difficult to be, even if Anthony was naturally charismatic, flirtatious, and all smiles.

You remained off to the side with Charlotte, watching them dance. Mary chuckled on occasion or glanced your way before replying to something Anthony had said.

"I cannot fault your good taste," your sister beside you remarked, lightly clapping her hands to the rhythm of the music.

"Do you approve?" you asked, turning your gaze toward her.

"I wish you could marry tomorrow," she teased half-jokingly. "He is truly charismatic and handsome. And he looks upon you as though there were not a single lady in the room whose attention was more worth possessing than yours."

You turned your eyes away, feeling the tips of your ears begin to warm. Perhaps it was true. Anthony did not look upon your sister in the same manner; there was a polite enough measure of interest, but no spark, no sign of that coy little smirk he always bestowed upon you, nor the way his eyes came to rest when beholding you, his pupils dilating ever so slightly.

And you could not have been more utterly enchanted by the fact.

Charlotte and you watched them dance and laugh in soft intervals until the music drew to a close. You saw them exchange a few parting words before going their separate ways; Mary strolled back in your direction, while Anthony turned and dissolved into the crowd. Your sister must have caught the flicker of confusion on your face, for the very first thing she said upon reaching your side was:

"Fear not. Sir Wesbury wished to step away to the washroom."

"Oh," you nodded, a smile gracing your lips. "And how was the dance?"

"Exquisite," Mary beamed broadly. "Sir Wesbury is terribly amusing; he knows precisely what to say to make a lady laugh beyond proper decorum."

"Now I feel somewhat at a disadvantage," Charlotte teased, making you laugh as you rested a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.

"You shall have your moment; allow Sir Wesbury to return from the washroom first."

Yet he began to take far too long, and your curiosity began to prick at you as you cast subtle glances in every direction, searching for him. Could he have lost his way to the washroom? To be sure, your home was quite grand, with washrooms on both the ground and second floors, but five minutes stretched into ten, and before you knew it, you were informing your sisters that you would go in search of him.

You skirted the perimeter of the ballroom first before stepping out to search the corridors leading to the washrooms. Nothing.

Could he have fled? No. That was impossible, was it? There would be no reason for him to desire flight so early in the evening.

The hall was teeming with guests, making it difficult to reach the foyer, but once you broke free, you cast a quick glance up the staircase before stepping toward the garden. You reasoned it was entirely understandable for him to crave a breath of fresh air after dancing in such a crowded, stifling room. Yet Anthony was not in the garden either, nor in any corner within the estate.

You were beginning to feel uneasy in your own skin when you stepped back inside—and then, at last, you spotted him descending the foyer stairs. Upon seeing you, he offered a smile tainted with mild embarrassment, assuming he must have noticed your brow furrowed in perplexity.

"I lost my way searching for the washroom; one of the servants directed me upstairs," you exhaled a soft laugh of pure relief as he descended the final steps of the staircase to join you. "You possess a vast estate."

"How strange, the ground floor is abundant with washrooms," you noted, puzzled, but shrugged it off. It was a ball, after all; the hall was crowded, and many guests were bound to seek the washrooms.

"They must have been occupied," Anthony offered with a slight shrug of his shoulders, extending his hand to you. "A dance, my lady?" Naturally, you accepted.

Anthony fulfilled his promise of granting you a second dance; however, he first bestowed upon your sister Charlotte her first. Even your mother was delighted with Sir Norris, observing them from a discreet distance as she conversed with the chaperones of other young ladies—no doubt striking agreements or merely exchanging gossip while granting the three of you sufficient space. Even so, she possessed the eyes of a hawk, and it was rare for her gaze to stray far from the four of you.

Your first dance of the evening had been with Anthony, before he danced with Charlotte and another gentleman introduced by your mother requested the pleasure of a dance. The conversation with Sir Ashford proved a welcome enough distraction to keep you from dwelling on the rigid feet that had undeniably stepped on your shoes more than once; he was politely agreeable, yet a dreadful dancer, and comparing him to another brilliant gentleman was entirely beyond your control.

"I have been pondering a great deal these past few days," Anthony murmured as he turned you in place, before returning his hand to hold your waist with precise firmness. It was your second dance of the night with him.

"I see," you replied. "Would you care to share your thoughts with me, Sir?"

Anthony continued to move to the rhythm, and judging by his expression and his silence, he was carefully measuring his words.

"It is common knowledge that I shall inherit the Ravenscroft estate, given that my brother is set to inherit Sidmouth," he began, earning a subtle nod from you as you listened with rapt attention despite the music and the turns of the dance. "And it is one of my greatest desires to take such fine company with me when the time comes to return after the end of the season."

You inhaled deeply, your chest rising beneath the subtle neckline of your dress.

"I have heard that the county of Cheshire is breathtaking beneath the autumn light," you offered carefully. "I doubt anyone could refuse the honor of admiring it."

Anthony's expression softened; you watched as his eyes danced between yours, looking at you with intense devotion. He drew a breath before speaking with a tender smile.

"If you will permit me the audacity... would I have your approval if I were to request an audience with your father in the coming week?" You felt a long sigh escape you, born of pure relief.

You wanted to kiss him. Never had you felt such an overwhelming urge to kiss anyone—not even the most gallantly attentive gentlemen of other ballrooms in seasons past—as much as you wished to kiss Anthony in that very moment.

"My father always receives gentlemen with great esteem, Sir Wesbury. I know he would not deny you a conversation in his study when the day comes."

"Most kind of him," Anthony murmured with a sigh of relief, bringing forth a laugh from the very depths of your chest.

The happiness you felt was surely shown in your face, but you couldn't even care less.

The solemn day arrived far more sluggishly than you would have preferred.

Perhaps it was merely your anxiety, or the plain fact that from the very moment Monday dawned, you waited with bated breath—seated upon the sofa before the grand bay window, embroidery in hand—for Sir Wesbury's promised arrival. Yet Anthony did not appear until Wednesday. Monday and Tuesday proved to be a quiet torment in which you forced yourself to find solace in mundane affairs: you organized the ribbons upon your mother’s bureau at least twice, and helped the cooks bake a cake out of sheer, restless boredom.

It was during the morning call, just after Wednesday’s breakfast, that he finally appeared. Mary was the first to glimpse him approaching the estate, rushing inside with such haste that she nearly stumbled upon the steps along her way.

"It is Sir Wesbury! He is coming this way!" she squealed with a radiant smile.

Charlotte’s gaze darted to you instantly, and your mother rose in a flurry, hastily gathering the belongings she had scattered across the small table.

"Quickly, hide the ribbons," she ordered, compelling the three of you to tidy the space you shared.

"Who?" your father inquired, lowering his newspaper to look at all three of you, his brow furrowed in utter bewilderment. He was ever the last to be informed of anything; nothing about it surprised you anymore.

"Mr. Wesbury," your mother replied in a hurried tone, sweeping all the ribbons into a hasty bundle inside their drawer. It pained you to recall the hours spent arranging them by shade just two days prior. "The gentleman who has been courting your daughter."

"Ah," he uttered simply, before retreating once more behind his newspaper. You swallowed nervously at his indifference, but there was no time to dwell on it, as a servant stepped into the room.

"Mr. Anthony Wesbury, Viscount of Ravenscroft," he announced, bowing before departing precisely as he had entered.

Your sisters swiftly seated themselves upon the armchairs before Anthony crossed the threshold, forcing an air of composure and indifference. A gentle smile rested upon his lips, yet the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed his underlying nervousness.

"My ladies," he said, bowing low in your presence.

"Sir Wesbury," your mother greeted him with an impeccable smile. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" she asked, feigning casual disregard.

Anthony swallowed hard before speaking.

"If your lordship permits, I should like to speak with Mr. [LastName] privately in his study for a few moments. There is a matter of utmost gravity I wish to lay before his consideration," he said, inclining his head slightly in a gesture of profound respect.

Your father’s newspaper rustled loudly in the quiet parlor. You dared not look at him directly, but you heard him rise from his chair.

"This way. Join me in the library."

You exhaled softly, releasing the breath you had been holding.

Anthony offered a bow to the four women in the room, and you watched him pass by your side, disappearing alongside your father into his private sanctuary. You longed for the chance to say something to him—perhaps to offer a word of courage—yet you knew etiquette afforded no such liberty.

The moment the door closed behind them, Charlotte leapt from her chair to sit beside you, taking your hand in a silent token of devotion. You could utter no words; you simply remained still for a fleeting second before returning to your embroidery, the sole tether keeping your sanity intact these past days.

"Mary!" you heard your mother whisper sharply. Turning around, you caught her hurrying toward the door to press her ear against it.

"Shhh..." she insisted, before your mother nudged her away.

It took roughly half an hour for Anthony to emerge from your father’s study, by which time you were nothing short of a bundle of nerves. You had been embroidering almost fiercely, while Charlotte read by your side and Mary assisted your mother in properly restoring the ribbons to their drawer. The silence had been deafening—neither man spoke loudly enough for a single word to cross the threshold, an agony for every woman in the room.

When you finally heard the door unlatch, standing up was an instinct. You watched the exact moment your father allowed Anthony out of the study; he looked... well, composed, almost relieved. As your eyes met, his features softened into that characteristic smile of his, making you sigh in silent relief.

"[Name], my dear. Step in here for a moment," your father called instead, stealing your gaze away from your betrothed.

"Yes, Father." You set your embroidery upon the armchair and passed by Anthony into the quiet study.

You could feel your heart hammering wildly against your chest as he closed the door behind you and walked over to sit at his desk.

"I presume you already know the purpose of Sir Wesbury's visit," he began. You exhaled silently, murmuring a soft "yes" that allowed him to continue. "He has expressed a most sincere affection for you... He came to request my consent to offer you his hand... provided that is your desire."

You could not help but let out a soft, bashful laugh.

"Oh, Father, there is nothing I desire more," you confessed in a hushed, shy tone. Your father’s expression softened ever so slightly upon hearing you. "All the other lords are so dull, and Anthony... he is so deeply charismatic." You covered your mouth, trying in vain to hide the fond smile blooming upon your lips.

"It brings me peace to know your heart is truly in it," your father said thoughtfully, nodding. "Yet you must consider that his income is four thousand pounds a year... a sum far more modest than ours, which may require sacrifices to which you are unaccustomed."

"Four thousand pounds a year is more than enough to live comfortably; I should want for nothing more," you replied with unwavering conviction.

Your father nodded in quiet contemplation, scratching the stubble on his chin as he pondered. He said nothing further, simply continuing his slow nod.

"Consider it settled, then," he stated decisively. "I shall dispatch a letter to the archbishop to request a special license for the marriage. Afterwards, we may discuss the time and place."

A breath escaped your lips before you rushed forward to embrace him tightly. Demonstrations of physical affection were rare between you and your father, yet you were far too happy to care. You felt him return the embrace gently, patting your arm before you released him with a glowing smile.

"Thank you, Father."

"And do extend to Sir Wesbury my invitation to join us for dinner tonight."

That evening’s dinner proved to be far more than a mere formality. Anthony was already waiting outside, exchanging occasional Words with your mother and two sisters. When you extended your father’s invitation, you were certain his eyes gleamed with something akin to delight—though at that moment, you could not have guessed the true reason behind it. It was to be the first time you officially shared a meal together.

Your intentions were clear as you attempted to persuade him to stay for the remaining hours.

"I ought to return to the estate to prepare a few things first, and to prepare myself as well," he declined gently. "I should hardly wish to dine with my fiancée looking like this."

You wanted to tell him that he looked quite handsome enough as he was, but you had no desire to make him feel obligated to stay if he had other matters to attend to first. Thus, you accompanied him to the door and watched him take his leave from the property.

"What does it feel like to have secured one of London’s most coveted bachelors?" your mother whispered behind you, watching his departing figure.

When you turned, a gentle smile rested upon her face; you could see the entire weight of the social season lifting from her shoulders. You knew all too well that the chief concern of a mother with four daughters was to secure them a prosperous future and a respectable husband. A wave of pride washed over you, knowing you had managed to captivate a proper gentleman—one blessed with good fortune and a lively, bubbling personality like Anthony's. It was not as though ladies of this era enjoyed the luxury of marrying purely for love, so you felt deeply grateful that your best option had turned out to be, in truth, the finest choice of all.

Your mother affectionately tucked a lock of hair behind your ear.

"I shall dress your hair for dinner," she decided then, kissing your forehead before stepping inside.

The remainder of your day before dinner was spent in study and practice. Before luncheon, you devoted a good hour to the pianoforte while Mary learned to embroider alongside your mother, and Charlotte, as ever, lost herself in her reading. After luncheon, you spent hours painting in a small study, until Mary interrupted to show her progress in embroidery and ask for your assistance. It was not until nearly six in the evening that you began to prepare for dinner.

Ordinarily, family dinners were rather casual affairs; there was no need for corsets, cosmetics, or grand gowns. Yet, with your newly betrothed as an invited guest, social etiquette demanded you appear at least presentable.

"Upon closer inspection, I believe Sir Wesbury's eyes are more blue than green," Charlotte remarked, browsing through your vast collection of dresses. "Like the hue of the sea on a sunlit day."

"You ought to wear a blue gown," Mary chimed in.

"Why must you both always try to match my dresses to the color of his eyes?" you asked, sitting upon the bed as your sisters took it upon themselves to decide for you.

"Because it is romantic," Mary replied, pushing past Charlotte to hold up a pale blue dress before you—one that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the shade of Anthony's eyes.

Not that it mattered, in any case. For that very reason, you ended up ignoring them both and choosing a pale pink gown with puffed sleeves, a square neckline, and delicate pearl detailing across the bodice.

When the clock struck precisely eight-three, Anthony arrived at your father’s estate for the second time that day, looking unfairly attractive.

"My lady," he greeted you, pressing a kiss to the knuckles of your hand with that devilish, almost arrogant poise that you had found captivating from the start.

You were relieved to find that the atmosphere remained comfortable once the food was served and everyone was seated. The room felt warm, glowing under the candlelight that illuminated the tableware. Your mother insisted you sit opposite one another, as etiquette forbade betrothed couples from sitting side by side.

"It is my absolute pleasure, on behalf of my wife and myself, to say that we could not be more delighted to welcome Sir Wesbury to our table," your father began, raising his wine glass, prompting everyone to follow suit almost immediately. "Not merely as a guest, but as one who shall soon become part of this family."

"Why am I not permitted to drink wine as well?" Mary asked in a low whisper beside you, causing you to lean in to reply.

"You may drink wine when you are of age, Mary... Besides, it is not particularly grand," you murmured, keeping your tone low enough for only her ears.

"For a mother, it is a profound joy and peace of mind to know her daughter shall be in the hands of so faultless a gentleman. It is an invaluable blessing," your mother added to your father’s toast, her cheeks flushed as much from the warmth of the room as from the silent effect of the sweet, fruity wine.

"Your words honor me deeply," Anthony replied with an equally dazzling smile. "The trust you have placed in me by bestowing your daughter’s hand is the greatest honor I have ever received."

You smiled as you watched him, feeling your cheeks and ears warm under the weight of the attention.

"His intentions are entirely reciprocal, Sir," you offered, almost shyly.

"A toast to that!" your father called from the head of the table, and everyone drank from their glasses in harmony.

A comfortable silence fell over the room for a few minutes, broken only by the quiet clink of cutlery against porcelain.

"We have planned our customary stroll through Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon. Now that your intentions are official, I hope you will join us in the carriage, Sir Wesbury," your mother resumed with a flawless smile, after finishing a bite of potato salad.

You watched Anthony chew and swallow before replying.

"An absolute privilege," he nodded. "I have also taken the liberty of securing a box at the Drury Lane Theatre for next Friday. I trust you will all honor me with your company for the performance."

"We accept with delight, my Lord," you answered, cutting a tender piece of meat from your plate. "They say this season’s production is quite exceptional."

From that moment on, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Your mother led most of it, flitting smoothly from one topic to the next: art, the interests you shared, the estate Anthony was set to inherit from his family, the wedding date, the health of his kin. There was hardly a subject left untouched that evening.

By the time Anthony prepared to take his leave, his steps were slightly unsteady. After bidding farewell to your entire family, your mother granted you leave to escort him to the door to bid your betrothed goodnight.

"It has been a thoroughly delightful evening," Anthony said with a sigh, his cheeks rosy from the wine, his words slurring ever so slightly. "To know that we shall soon share my home..."

"The gentleness with which you speak of our future brings peace to my heart," you whispered, feeling your chest swell with affection.

You saw him reach out a hand toward you.

"May I?"

You felt your heart leap against your ribs. You offered him your hand and watched him bend down to kiss your knuckles. But, moved by a sudden stroke of boldness, you leaned in at the same moment, catching his lips with yours.

It was a chaste touch, and the sheer surprise of it made you both pull back immediately. Anthony stared at you, his lips slightly parted, his brow furrowed in pure confusion.

Yet, there was not a trace of rejection in his eyes.

"We are not meant to... Etiquette does not—"

"When have you and I ever heeded etiquette, Sir?" you interrupted softly, a slight shyness creeping into your tone.

At that, Anthony relaxed, letting out a quiet, amused chuckle.

"You speak the truth," he admitted. However, he made no move to kiss you again, and you did not attempt it a second time.

"Until tomorrow, Sir Wesbury," you said, gently releasing his hand with a smile.

He offered a flushed, graceful bow. "Until tomorrow, my Lady. Sweet dreams."

And with that, Anthony departed.

You watched him fade into the night in silence, completely unaware that it would be the very last time you would see him for a long time to come.

Dear readers of The Morning Chronicle, hold tight to your teacups, for Mayfair’s high society is trembling to its very roots.

What began as a tranquil, sunlit morning ended in the most thunderous scandal of the season.

The Duke of Bristol himself has been stripped of his mantle of invincibility. The rumor that once drifted through the corridors, whispering of "treason against the Crown," is no longer mere conjecture, but a grim reality. The scene was worthy of the most dramatic of plays: the King’s officers arrived at the Duke’s monumental residence, invading his drawing rooms. Before the astonished gazes of the servants, they read the royal arrest warrants.

The distinguished Duke was escorted to a somber black carriage that swept him away directly into the shadows of the Tower. Yet behind the mansion's doors remains the true disaster: a devastated duchess and her three young daughters, reduced in a matter of hours to the utmost uncertainty. The family now finds itself adrift in a sea of debts and crown investigations. The question hovering over the Mayfair air is as cruel as it is inevitable: how ever will they manage to survive?

The vilest blow, however, falls upon one of the eldest daughters. The poor young lady must not only bear the heavy stain of a father imprisoned for treason, but also the cowardice of her supposed suitor. That distinguished gentleman, who was already regarded as her near-fiancé, had not been seen in the ballroom for days, and today, with the tragedy confirmed, the man has simply vanished into thin air.

How remarkably convenient it is for some to lose both memory and affection the very moment a fortune evaporates!

The young lady’s reputation lies utterly ruined, and the drawing rooms of high society will not be slow to turn their backs on her. In our beloved Regency, a father accused of treason is a tragedy, but to be left stranded by your betrothed before the eyes of all is a social sentence from which one rarely recovers.

I shall keep my ears tuned to the carriages and the letters. In the meantime, dear ladies and gentlemen, do remember to keep a firm grip on your crowns... one never knows when the ground beneath your feet may give way.

"Stand up straight, Charlotte, you are slumping," you muttered under your breath to your younger sister.

The ballroom was stifling. Not only did you have to endure the heat of an overcrowded, relatively small space, but you also had to appear completely unbothered under the watchful eyes of practically all of English high society.

Charlotte’s debut had been flawless, considering the position your family was in. Or rather, what was left of it.

After your father’s imprisonment on charges of high treason, you were left with nothing. The Crown had seized the estate registered in his name, and your mother had been forced to hurriedly seek shelter with one of her brothers. His standing was far from the comfortable life you once knew, but given the circumstances, none of you were in any position to utter a single complaint.

Your mother had been fiercely proud in adhering to the social timeline that had been set from the beginning, even if you had failed to secure a husband in the allotted time. Charlotte would make her debut right after you, and Mary would follow the next year upon coming of age. Now, you had to share these society events with your younger sister and pray to whichever god was listening that she wouldn't meet the same fate as you.

As for Anthony, you knew nothing. He had vanished a little less than a year ago, toward the end of the last social season. Just as the gossip columns so gleefully reported, he had disappeared into the summer wind without a word, leaving you heartbroken and your family ruined.

He had not only ruined your reputation—you had hoped that upon marrying, he would be kind enough to allow your family to reside on the same estate you lived in, saving them from ruin. But a week after the agonizing ordeal, you learned with heavy grief that his disappearance was not due to pressing matters of importance.

Anthony Wesbury had simply abandoned you.

"I am standing straight," Charlotte whispered urgently back. "I can't breathe in this damned corset. How do you endure it?"

"You would breathe much better if you stood properly," you whispered in response.

Your mother was only a few paces away, likely attempting to rebuild a decent reputation for her daughters. You adored her—the way she remained steadfast before the masses just to secure the best for her children. You couldn't hope to become anyone better than her. That is, if you could ever marry after the ordeal with Anthony.

Your chest still heavy with grief whenever you thought of him.

"Would you like some sparkling wine? It will ease your nerves," you murmured to Charlotte. She seemed to notice your newly relaxed composure and nodded.

"Please."

You placed a hand on her shoulder before slipping away through the crowd, signaling a swift departure. You needed to find a footman carrying drinks to help calm your tense sister.

You hadn't received a single proposal. It was to be expected. At least Charlotte had one or two gentlemen keeping a watchful eye on her. It was a true relief.

"My lady," someone called out, catching your attention. Turning around, you saw one of the stewards standing tall before you with a polite smile. "Sir Norris requests your presence."

Sir Norris. The host of the ball, whom you had not yet had the pleasure of meeting.

You furrowed your brow slightly. Why would he wish to see you specifically? And in private?

"Follow me, if you please."

Your curiosity had always been your greatest flaw.

You followed the man in silence, weaving through the crowd to the foyer, where he led you down a deserted hallway. He opened the door to a private chamber and stepped aside with a slight bow to let you in.

What you saw upon entering made your blood run cold.

Anthony Wesbury himself, dressed in his usual attire. Your heart sank into your stomach. You felt the sudden urge to fly at him, to strike him, kick him, scream, cry—and then kiss him.

You were only snapped out of your daze when you heard the door click shut behind you.

"My lady," he greeted softly, offering a bow. He bore no smile; he looked quite grave. A bit of a beard and mustache had grown in, making him look unfairly handsome.

And you hated yourself for still finding him handsome.

"How ought I address you, Sir?" you asked with guarded coldness. "I was told Sir Norris required my presence."

"[Name]..." he began gently before letting out a sigh.

"At the very least, it is a relief to know you are alive and well rather than dead in a ditch," you said, unable to bite your tongue any longer.

"I apologize for leaving in such a manner," Anthony said carefully. "But I had reasons... good reasons."

"And would you care to explain those reasons?" you interrupted, holding your head high. "I believe a former betrothed deserves to know. It is the least you owe me."

You watched him nod and lower his gaze for a moment, clearly bracing himself to speak the truth.

"My name is not Anthony Wesbury." Your chest tightened with anguish, but you held your ground. "It is Lando Norris. And I am no viscount of any estate—I work as a spy for the Crown."

"I beg your pardon?" You blinked, staring at Anthony—or Lando—with a furrowed brow and eyes brimming with tears. Had it all been a lie?

"I had to conceal my true identity to protect the mission I was assigned to," Lando explained hastily, seeing the expression on your face. "And that is the only thing I have ever lied to you about, my lady."

"The only thing?" you repeated, your voice trembling. "Can you truly swear that your intentions with me were honorable?"

You saw him hesitate for a fraction of a second and let out a humorless huff, turning your head away to hide a foolish tear that had escaped. You couldn't bear this.

"Your father was accused of high treason against the Crown," Lando said quietly. "That was my doing."

You whipped your head back to him, stunned.

"Not only have you ruined my reputation, but you have also managed to leave my family destitute," you breathed out, utterly distraught.

"[Name]," Lando called sternly. "Your father was caught using his fleet to strike deals with enemies of the Crown. He played both sides to advance his own wealth, and there is no crime more severe. I found the proof in his study—"

"You used me," you whispered, your voice shaking. Just when you thought nothing else could shatter your perception of him any further.

He crossed the room in two long strides and gently cupped your face with both hands. His hands were large, completely framing your cheeks, and you only allowed it because you hadn't had time to react—and because you were weak. You were utterly weak for this man.

"I assure you, I did not. I never intended to fall in love with you," he murmured.

"How dare you speak of love?" you asked, thoroughly offended.

"It is the truth." Lando gave you that look. The one where his eyes softened, where he gazed intently at your face, tracing every feature, his pupils dilating from the sheer proximity. "That is why I returned. To offer you a solution to your predicament."

"With all due respect, Sir," you sniffled, "I highly doubt you possess anything that could fix my family's ruin."

"Marry me," he cut in, his tone bordering on eager. "Marry me as we originally agreed. Allow me to take care of your family. I will settle your mother and sisters in a fine estate and provide for them for the rest of their lives, if only you give me your hand."

You let out a shaky breath, your mind reeling. This man had sent your father to prison, condemned him under the highest offense in the land, destroyed your reputation, and cast your family into misery.

And now, he was offering a way out. He was standing tall in front of you, offering what you only used to dream about months ago.

"Let me mend what I broke," Lando urged in a low voice. "And let me prove to you that I speak the truth. That I have been devoted to you from the moment I first saw you speaking with those other gentlemen. That no other lady could ever evoke such feelings in me as you do."

"Lando," you whispered. His name—his real name—felt so foreign yet so right on your lips.

He wiped your tears away with his thumb, his gaze dropping to your lips with something akin to hunger.

"You will never go hungry again," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "And I will never allow anyone to speak of you with disdain ever again. Never."

Your lips trembled as tears welled in your eyes once more. Anguish and relief warred within you, carving a hollow ache in your chest.

"Very well," you agreed in a faint whisper before he closed the distance between you with a proper kiss. A real kiss.

And you could feel just how starved he was for you by the way he tilted his head, holding yours firmly to pour his devotion into your mouth, his tongue tracing your upper lip before pulling your lower one between his own.

"Very well," you repeated between kisses.

The ballroom smelled faintly of sweat mixed with bubbly and an excess of men’s cologne. Perhaps it was due to your lack of interest, but you felt trapped in the single most boring conversation in existence—even considering that you used to attend the occasional meeting with your father regarding the naval fleets. Standing before you were two handsome nobles attempting to entertain you with a conversation about the rise in the wheat market over the past few weeks. It had even crossed your mind that discussing political decisions sounded far more amusing than anything these lords had to say.

You wished your sisters had been there to keep you entertained, but considering the eldest was already married and utterly forgotten, and your two younger sisters were not yet old enough to make their debut, it was entirely impossible.

Your own debut had been grueling. You had never worn a corset so tight for so long; you were certain the skin covering your ribs had been left bruised after the evening. But it had been completely worth it—thanks to that, you had incredible proposals and dashing gentlemen competing for your hand.

Pity none of them had been blessed with a lively, charming personality.

"If we allow foreign wheat to flood our shores, what will become of the landowners' honor?"

"An unimaginable tragedy, no doubt, Lord Danbury," you sighed, trying not to sound as flat as you felt. "I cannot imagine a cruel destiny for the nation than slightly cheaper bread for the common people."

Lord Danbury blinked, trying to decipher whether the comment was a display of refined knowledge or simply lethal sarcasm. He seemed to decide it was the former, for he offered a smug smile.

"I see the Duke has instructed you quite well in matters of true importance. I can only imagine a lady of your stature understands the weight of property."

You inhaled deeply, limiting yourself to just that, though all you wanted to do was sigh out loud from sheer boredom right in their faces.

"Believe me, my lord," you smiled, fluttering your feather fan to cool off the suffocating wave of tedium, "the weight of your properties is practically the only thing I have heard about since the evening began."

You glanced away for just a moment, indulging in the view of other prominent young lords. You wondered if any of them were even half as amusing as they were handsome, but assumed, looking back at Lord Danbury, that it was practically impossible.

Lord Harrington beside him, sadly, was no better. He was a brainless, cheap copy who spent his time nodding along and smiling every time you made even the slightest eye contact with him.

Your dance card at your wrist lay completely blank—an embarrassment considering how passionate you were about dancing, and a vile demonstration that your father had only introduced you to the most boring lords in the entire court.

You were beginning to calculate how much it would cost you to feign a swoon to escape the conversation when a shadow was cast over the three of you, forcing your attention back to the present. The sight of a third lord momentarily stole the air from your lungs—not only from surprise, but also from sheer cheekiness; a gentleman could not present himself before a lady without an intermediary to introduce them.

"My lords, I apologize for interrupting such an important and profound conversation about the price of wheat, but I fear I must kidnap the lady," he said, his tone warm and terribly amused.

"Kidnap me, sir...?" You placed a hand on your chest and instinctively accepted the glass of bubbly he was offering you with a smile.

This man was barely a head taller than you—not particularly tall, but infuriatingly attractive. He had skin that could only be sun-kissed, flawlessly styled, shiny curls, and emerald-blue eyes with enviable lashes. He took your breath away for a second time in a matter of moments.

"Wesbury. Anthony Wesbury, at your service," he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did, which you found to be the most wonderful thing. "May I?"

You looked down to where his finger was pointing. Your dance card, completely empty.

You puffed out your chest and extended your arm, allowing Anthony to write his name himself. You blushed furiously when you saw him hesitate and exhale a soft laugh before writing on the completely blank page. When he looked back up to meet your eyes, you had to resume fanning yourself with your feather fan, as the room was starting to feel suffocating all over again.

"It would be a true tragedy to ruin such exquisite music by choosing to remain among the stagnant crowd," his smile was directed at both lords, neither of whom had managed to offer you a single dance. "Will you grant me this dance, or would you prefer to keep hearing about the price of wheat?"

"You are dangerously impertinent, sir," you said, before placing the completely empty glass of bubbly onto a passing servant's tray and accepting Anthony's hand. "But you are quite right. The music is far too exquisite to be wasted."

You tried not to react when Anthony led you straight to the center of the dance floor, pulling you close in a swift movement with an arm around your waist. His hand was warm, large, and somewhat calloused, but it covered yours with ease, instantly giving you a sense of protection—even if you did not know this man at all.

You looked around, trying to see if anyone else was watching you dance. But both Lord Danbury and Lord Harrington were already nowhere to be seen.

"Is something troubling you, my lady?" Anthony asked to bring you back, which worked, as you looked back at him, a bit distracted. "Don't tell me you are thinking about something as banal as wheat again."

"Not at all, sir," you replied, following his steps. You were surprised by the ease with which he moved you across the floor to the rhythm of the orchestra. "I was simply looking for my aunt."

"Are you worried about being seen with me?" he inquired with a hint of mockery so subtle you almost missed it, were it not for the stupidly handsome grin on his face.

"I could expect nothing less after such insolence on your part, sir," you shot back, slightly on the defensive.

"On the contrary," he said with conviction as he spun you in place, "I highlight informality as the finest way to truly know a lady."

"Unheard of," you murmured between your teeth to hide the silly smile that threatened to make your cheeks ache.

"I fear that were it not for my lack of formality, you would not be interested," he answered carefully. "Or could you claim you wouldn't have found me to be just another boring lord from some boring estate had I approached with a chaperone?"

You allowed yourself a smile before replying, "I fear I cannot refute that."

You had to admit it: Anthony Wesbury was refreshing in an atmosphere as suffocating as a social and political ball. Your father had abandoned you to attend to other matters with the very first men who spoke to you, and your mother, seeing you occupied, had simply decided to stay out of it to let you socialize. You would have preferred your mother hovering over you, leading the conversation, over being left with two such dull men.

"Admit it," Anthony smirked, leaning in to whisper with a smile, "you were expecting another stiff-footed lord to step on your dress."

You let out a chuckle, knowing that Anthony actually moved remarkably well. There was a lightness to his steps that could only stem from confidence.

And what a thrilling thing confidence was in an attractive man.

"And instead, you are standing before the finest dancer in all of London." You raised an eyebrow at that, huffing with amusement.

"I admit your ego is as inflated as the dome of the royal house," you countered, earning a laugh from Sir Wesbury. "Though I must admit, my lord, you are quite light on your feet."

"Only that?" he asked, exaggerating his disappointment to make you smile. "Then I can only pray that merit works to earn me a proper compliment during our next dance."

"Next dance?" you inquired, feeling a blush creep up again.

"You couldn't have thought we would have such a disappointing end," Anthony spun you around once more, and you realized with horror that the waltz was drawing to a close. "When the most fun comes after the first."

"You must speak from experience," you said, narrowing your eyes with a smile.

"Do not be flustered, my lady," Anthony tilted his head to the side with grace. "I am just as much a newcomer to society as you are."

When the waltz finally ended, you stepped back from Anthony, your breathing slightly hurried. He bowed in your presence before disappearing into the crowd with the promise of your second dance.

Except Lord Wesbury did not show up for the rest of the night. And you did not accept any other dance for the remainder of the evening.

The following morning began as a total trial.

Perhaps it was the fact that it was your first social season, or perhaps you had drunk a bit too much sparkling wine—never enough to embarrass yourself publicly in a room full of people, of course—but you had woken up with a piercing headache. It didn't help that your two younger sisters attacked the moment the first rays of sunlight appeared. It was far too early, and you had returned far too late the night before, to endure a punishment of such magnitude.

"Did you meet many gentlemen?"

"Did you dance with any of them?"

"What did I tell you about bothering me so early in the morning?" you grunted, trying to press your face deeper into the pillow.

Mary, the youngest of your sisters, bounced onto the edge of your bed, making it tremble and squeak slightly under her weight.

"Did you?" she inquired, leaning over to catch a glimpse of your face.

"Did you drink?" Charlotte asked now.

You sighed before forcing yourself to sit up. Your head throbbed, and you rubbed your eye, still bearing traces of the makeup from the night before since you had collapsed straight into bed and forgotten to wash your face. When you were finally able to open your eyes without dying in the attempt, their faces were filled with eager anticipation for your answer.

"I met a few gentlemen. They were all boring, really—you aren’t missing out on anything," you answered, raising your eyebrows.

Charlotte huffed.

"Was at least one of them handsome?"

You looked away, recalling Anthony's face and his gorgeous emerald-blue eyes.

"Most of them," you answered instead, looking back at them.

"How many did you dance with?" Mary leaned forward on the bed, curious. You exhaled, bracing yourself for your response.

"Only one."

They burst into loud squeals and giggles before firing off a barrage of questions. Was he handsome? How tall was he? Was he funny? Did he dance well? You allowed them to ask every single question simply because they seemed so genuinely excited and intrigued.

"Is there any chance you’ll see him again today at Hyde Park?" Charlotte smiled.

Hyde Park was the most famous Royal Park in London. When there were no tea parties or organized gatherings, the elite would spend most of their time parading in their carriages to see and be seen, allowing high society ladies to be presented to interested gentlemen. You had been there a couple of times, and you remembered perfectly that your father had been invited to a garden party that very afternoon, to which he intended to bring you.

Whether you might cross paths with Anthony was a complete mystery. Besides, even if he were to attend, what were the odds he would actually speak to you again? After all, he had been perfectly clear the night before by failing to claim his promised second dance with you. You hadn't even seen him leave—no carriage, no chaperone.

It was as if he had simply vanished into the morning breeze.

"I don't know, Charlotte," you replied simply, looking away with a sigh. "I could only hope so."

Anthony Wesbury was not someone you wished to think about at this precise moment, nor did you want to grant him the satisfaction of occupying your thoughts—even if there was no way he could know. You preferred a thousand times over to worry about far more pressing matters, such as the garden party your father was invited to that afternoon, where you, of course, were also expected.

That was precisely the exhausting part of the social season: having absolutely no time to rest from so much interaction. The situation only worsened when you considered the significant role your father played in political affairs; after all, he owned the largest merchant fleet network at present and worked hand in hand with the Crown—one of the reasons he had been formally created a Duke. Your father’s high standing demanded that you attend every social event and live up to the status.

After luncheon, you found yourself obligated to prepare for the tea party with the help of your two younger sisters. They were far more excited than you were, which offered a bit of relief.

It was well known that debuting each sister separately rarely fostered sisterly harmony, but thankfully, that had never managed to divide your family—with the exception of your eldest sister, who had been married for two years and didn't even visit or invite them to her new home. It wasn't an obligation, of course, but you would have at least expected a little more warmth from the person who had helped raise you.

"You should wear the green one," Mary said, wrapping her arms gently around you and resting her chin on your shoulder to inspect the two dresses laid across your bed.

"It’s the color that flatters you most," Charlotte agreed with a nod.

The dress in question was an olive-green satin, plain save for the embroidered gold and white detailing. It featured puffed sleeves and an extra layer of sheer abaca fabric across the bust.

"Besides, it matches Sir Wesbury's eyes," you rolled your eyes at Mary’s teasing remark. Of course they would seize every subtle opportunity to bring up any detail you might have mentioned about him that morning.

You ended up choosing the green dress anyway. Your mother helped braid your hair while you applied a touch of makeup, and you left the house at precisely four o'clock in the afternoon.

"Hold your parasol firmly," your mother instructed, handing it to you in a hurried tone. "The wind might catch your dress, so you must be careful." She peered out the carriage window.

There was a heavy breeze under a dreadful summer sun.

"And keep your face and arms properly covered," she reminded you with a decisive tone. "Do not let the direct sun touch your skin."

You let out a silent sigh before offering a smile and a nod. The remainder of the journey passed in silence, and as the carriages pulled up after a long drive along Serpentine Road, you wanted nothing more than to step out. You were tired; the headache had subsided into a dull, annoying pressure between your brows, the sun was at its most suffocating point in the sky, and the breeze was hardly enough to offer relief—neither to you nor to any of the other ladies.

The first thing you noticed upon stepping out of the carriage were the long tables laden with refreshments. Pastries and sandwiches abounded, alongside steaming teapots, fine porcelain cups, cutlery, and sugar bowls placed at intervals. Your mother introduced you to a group of young ladies near your age who were chatting pleasantly around a small table. You caught sight of the gentlemen down by the lake, practicing archery while another group of ladies watched attentively.

You remained where you were, simply listening to the conversation without offering much input.

"One must admit the afternoon is turning out to be exceptionally pleasant. I feared this heat would melt the cream on the desserts, but the shade of these willows is truly a blessing," one of them remarked—you seemed to recall she was Miss Barrington, a young woman a few years your senior.

"A very timely blessing indeed. We were fortunate enough to secure the finest spot in the park," another lady’s mother chimed in.

The conversation soon shifted to the flavor of the pastries and the delicate care required in baking them, but you were already far too distracted by the scenery to pay close attention. Lately, everything felt so trivial that any conversation with your sisters was far more entertaining than upholding etiquette, yet you hadn't managed to make a single friend so far.

It was difficult, considering that most first impressions carried enough weight to keep everyone merely distantly polite toward one another.

"[Name], my dear, come here for a moment," you tore your gaze away from the lake to look back at your mother, who was approaching slowly alongside another gentleman.

It took you a few seconds to recognize Anthony.

His face and skin looked different in the sunlight; he appeared even more sun-kissed than you remembered. His eyes stood out strikingly against his attire, which was a pale, perfectly tailored blue. You forced yourself to press your lips together to keep your jaw from dropping as you bridged the remaining distance between you.

"The Viscount Ravenscroft was courteous enough to request an introduction. Sir Wesbury, allow me to present my daughter, Miss [Name]," you curtsied swiftly with a bend of your knees, biting the inside of your cheek.

"It is a privilege to finally meet you, Miss [LastName]," his smile made you grit your teeth slightly before offering a polite, false smile of your own.

"The honor is mine, Sir Wesbury," you bowed your head slightly, subtly twirling your parasol. You were just about to open your mouth to say something when Anthony cut in.

"Mrs. [LastName]," Anthony turned to your mother with a perfectly respectable smile, "the day is splendid. Would you grant me the honor of escorting your daughter to see the lake overlook?"

"Oh," your mother smiled, delighted, making no effort to hide her interest. "Of course. I shall follow just behind you."

Anthony offered a small bow and looked at you, gesturing with his hand to invite you to walk beside him. You moistened your lips, adjusted your parasol, and kept pace right beside him. Soon, you both reached the edge of the lake, embarking on a slow, relaxing stroll—technically alone.

"Did you not intend to mention earlier that you were the Viscount Ravenscroft?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at your mother, who was a few paces behind, taking in the details of the park.

"Would it have offered me any sort of advantage had you known beforehand?" he asked in return, with his signature smirk, leaning slightly in your direction.

"I beg your pardon? An advantage?"

"In the pursuit of your hand," Anthony explained softly, his voice gentle. You looked away to hide your flush.

"There is no such thing, sir," you whispered.

"Then allow me to express my delight," Anthony smiled, "in knowing that I am the only one."

You swallowed hard. His interest was no longer something you could ignore. You had never been courted so directly—in truth, you had never been courted at all—and the sensation was exquisite. Knowing that someone like Anthony, with his poise and standing, was interested in you brought an indescribable joy. Your stomach fluttered pleasantly every time he smiled with such confidence.

"A clever move," you managed to say, "presenting yourself to my mother as though you hadn't bypassed proper protocol last night." Bringing up the previous evening felt strange, considering he was still walking beside you with the promise of a dance he had never delivered. To say you were still a bit offended would be an understatement.

"I hope it is enough to demonstrate my intention to do things properly," he turned to look at you as you walked side by side, his hands clasped behind his back, your own hands clutching the parasol to shield your shoulders from the sun.

"You are halfway there, Sir," you said, matching his action and turning to meet his gaze for a brief moment. "But you still owe me a dance for last night."

"Regarding last night," Anthony stopped abruptly, forcing you to do the same and turn to face him. His hand hovered, uncertain whether he ought to touch you, while his face betrayed how deeply he wished to do so. "I must offer my most sincere apologies. Urgent matters of utmost importance compelled me to leave early. But I want you to know that I have not forgotten, and I still hope to grant you every dance you desire at the upcoming balls."

You felt the air leave your lungs as he finally reached out to take your hand delicately, leaning down to press a kiss to your silk-gloved knuckles. His lashes fluttered as he looked up at you.

"Apology accepted, sir," you murmured. "I expect you to keep your promise."

"Believe me, my lady. I have never broken a promise."

On the Monday of the following week, the gossip erupted in your home the moment you rose. Charlotte already held the newspaper—which encompassed all the news of the preceding week—and was reading it aloud with an almost exhausting effervescence. You took a seat across from her and poured a little warm milk into a glass.

"We regret to inform that Mr. Davenport was compelled to depart precipitously for the continent on this morning’s tide..." she read, her eyes flitting in haste across the front page, her voice dwindling to a hushed murmur.

Her sudden silence was troubling, prompting Mary, beside her, to lean over her shoulder to read. You blinked a few times, glancing first at your father, then at your mother.

"What is it, Charlotte, my dear?" your mother inquired.

"This column is about us," she said, her brow furrowed.

"What does it say? Read it aloud," she requested with a complacent smile.

"Disturbing rumors are indeed circulating regarding the fortune and future of the House of the Duke of Bristol"—you hid behind your glass as you watched your mother's smile begin to wither; your father lowered his own paper to pay heed—"it is whispered in the tea rooms that the distinguished Duke has spent an unusually prolonged amount of time with his bankers in the city—"

"Enough," your father cut her off in a frigid tone, and you saw Charlotte lower the paper, tense.

"What a vile and unnecessary accusation," your mother chimed in, her eyes fluttering with nervousness and restrained anger. "How are we to respond to such a rumor?" She turned back to your father, who uttered a humorless chuckle.

"How are we to respond?" he repeated. "A mere rumor, lacking both weight and truth."

"It is your daughter’s future that hangs in the balance with such slanders"—your father’s gaze fell upon you, and you decided to set down your half-full glass of milk to look at them both—"your daughters'" she corrected, looking at the three of you this time. "Do you truly believe any gentleman will hold interest in them if all of society suddenly begins to lend truth to such rumors?"

"And what do you suggest?" he inquired, giving a slight, barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders.

"We must host a ball." Your two sisters sat up straight with smiles upon hearing your mother’s decisive voice. "We cannot allow the integrity of our family to be insulted. Send letters this instant to all the noble families in the city."

Your mother puffed her chest with pride, and your father had no choice but to comply. He knew better than to simply refuse when she was set in such a mood.

Said and done, the date of the ball arrived two days later, and your home had been a tempest of chaos in anticipation of the event. Your sisters were beside themselves, obsessing over dresses; they even dragged you to Mayfair to purchase ribbons of the finest cloth, forcing you to sit and offer opinions while they tried on all manner of attire. You remained patient with them, for you knew this was the closest they would come to being in society for the time being, and how dearly they craved it.

You wondered if they would be just as weary and bored when their own turn arrived.

The havoc reigning in the kitchen and the main drawing room was no better than that within your bedchambers. Servant staff were shifting furniture to clear space, while cooks arranged pastries and delicacies across the tables. Men perched atop footstools to adorn the parlor drapes, and women scrubbed the floors.

It became painfully clear to you that attending balls was far more delightful than hosting them. Judging by the demeanor of both your parents, you assumed they had arrived at the very same conclusion.

"Is your Sir Wesbury invited to the ball?" Charlotte twirled in place to lift the skirt of her gown. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, yet your sisters had betrayed their eager anticipation by dressing far in advance.

"I saw to it that an invitation was sent to his estate," you offered with a gentle smile, only to be met by the gleeful squeals of your sisters. You could do little else but blush under the weight of such sudden scrutiny.

You had learned a great deal about Anthony during your promenade through Hyde Park, and you were utterly enchanted. He hailed from a family as large as your own, with two younger sisters and an elder brother who was already happily wed. He was twenty-six, born in Bristol, and you knew he had completed his studies at Oxford—a man deeply devoted to, and dearly cherished by, his family. You knew his sisters' names, and he knew those of yours. Moreover, he was undeniably charming and full of wit—or so he seemed to you, at least. Perhaps it was simply that he always knew precisely what to say to draw a reaction from you.

"I can hardly wait to meet him and pass judgment on your good taste," Mary remarked with a subtle smile as Charlotte braided her hair.

"I wager he is quite handsome," Charlotte chimed in, using that sly tone that signaled they were both attempting to coax more details from you.

Even though you had already disclosed almost everything.

"He is," you confirmed once more, beginning to brush your hair.

"Do you suppose he will speak with our father soon?" You raised your head to look at Charlotte, who had suddenly grown far more solemn, her question posed with careful hesitation.

A mere fortnight had passed since you first met Anthony, yet it was time enough to know his character; you had heard tales of ladies whose betrothals were sealed in even less time. Not to mention that he was attentive enough to frequent the very same gatherings and society affairs as you, whether by invitation or sheer fortune. If you were invited to a tea party, he was among the guests. If you attended the opera, he serendipitously occupied a box at the exact same performance. He had invited you to stroll beside the St. James's pond, to go boating, and had even invited you to paint together.

Anthony was the most attentive gentleman you knew.

"I do not rule out the possibility," you replied evasively, unwilling to tread upon uncertain ground.

"He would be a fool not to," Mary said, sensing your hesitation, which brought a soft smile to your lips.

All three of you were dressed and ready shortly before the guests began to arrive. Soon, the grand hall of your home and its spacious corridors were teeming with the finest high society—dresses of every hue, confections and dainties of every flavor, accompanied by the uplifting strains of fine music.

You were attempting to keep your sisters from depleting the pastry table too early when someone pinched the back of your arm. Surprised, you turned hastily, only to encounter a grinning Anthony. You cast a cautious glance about the room.

"Daring as ever, Sir," you murmured by way of greeting, curtsying before him.

"You know me well," he smiled, before casting his eyes upon your two sisters.

Both had promptly dropped their pastries to bestow their undivided attention, wearing smiles that were anything but demurely polite.

"Sir Wesbury. Allow me to introduce my two sisters, Charlotte and Mary," you offered, gesturing gently toward them. "Sisters, this is Sir Anthony Wesbury."

Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed from her effort to suppress a playful laugh. "It is an absolute pleasure, Lord Wesbury. We have heard your name spoken with such frequency that I feel as though I have known you all my life."

"Charlotte," you cautioned under your breath through a smiling mask.

"I trust the accounts were favorable, and that my introduction meets your expectations," Anthony replied smoothly, though his playful smirk did not escape your notice.

Astonishing. Simply splendid.

"Oh, utterly glowing!" Mary interjected merrily. "My sister has endlessly praised your lightness of foot and your ease in conversation." This statement visibly filled Anthony with pride, making him practically puff his chest.

"You stand before the finest dancer in all of London," he boasted, offering a sweeping little bow.

"Oh, is that so?" Charlotte teased.

"Prove it," Mary chimed in, her tone bright and full of playful anticipation. She giggled softly as Anthony extended a hand, which she delightfully accepted.

You watched them glide toward the dance floor, though not before Anthony sent a fleeting glance and a respectful bow your way—his subtle manner of reassuring you that it was a mere gesture of courtesy. You were not troubled in the least; it was difficult to be, even if Anthony was naturally charismatic, flirtatious, and all smiles.

You remained off to the side with Charlotte, watching them dance. Mary chuckled on occasion or glanced your way before replying to something Anthony had said.

"I cannot fault your good taste," your sister beside you remarked, lightly clapping her hands to the rhythm of the music.

"Do you approve?" you asked, turning your gaze toward her.

"I wish you could marry tomorrow," she teased half-jokingly. "He is truly charismatic and handsome. And he looks upon you as though there were not a single lady in the room whose attention was more worth possessing than yours."

You turned your eyes away, feeling the tips of your ears begin to warm. Perhaps it was true. Anthony did not look upon your sister in the same manner; there was a polite enough measure of interest, but no spark, no sign of that coy little smirk he always bestowed upon you, nor the way his eyes came to rest when beholding you, his pupils dilating ever so slightly.

And you could not have been more utterly enchanted by the fact.

Charlotte and you watched them dance and laugh in soft intervals until the music drew to a close. You saw them exchange a few parting words before going their separate ways; Mary strolled back in your direction, while Anthony turned and dissolved into the crowd. Your sister must have caught the flicker of confusion on your face, for the very first thing she said upon reaching your side was:

"Fear not. Sir Wesbury wished to step away to the washroom."

"Oh," you nodded, a smile gracing your lips. "And how was the dance?"

"Exquisite," Mary beamed broadly. "Sir Wesbury is terribly amusing; he knows precisely what to say to make a lady laugh beyond proper decorum."

"Now I feel somewhat at a disadvantage," Charlotte teased, making you laugh as you rested a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.

"You shall have your moment; allow Sir Wesbury to return from the washroom first."

Yet he began to take far too long, and your curiosity began to prick at you as you cast subtle glances in every direction, searching for him. Could he have lost his way to the washroom? To be sure, your home was quite grand, with washrooms on both the ground and second floors, but five minutes stretched into ten, and before you knew it, you were informing your sisters that you would go in search of him.

You skirted the perimeter of the ballroom first before stepping out to search the corridors leading to the washrooms. Nothing.

Could he have fled? No. That was impossible, was it? There would be no reason for him to desire flight so early in the evening.

The hall was teeming with guests, making it difficult to reach the foyer, but once you broke free, you cast a quick glance up the staircase before stepping toward the garden. You reasoned it was entirely understandable for him to crave a breath of fresh air after dancing in such a crowded, stifling room. Yet Anthony was not in the garden either, nor in any corner within the estate.

You were beginning to feel uneasy in your own skin when you stepped back inside—and then, at last, you spotted him descending the foyer stairs. Upon seeing you, he offered a smile tainted with mild embarrassment, assuming he must have noticed your brow furrowed in perplexity.

"I lost my way searching for the washroom; one of the servants directed me upstairs," you exhaled a soft laugh of pure relief as he descended the final steps of the staircase to join you. "You possess a vast estate."

"How strange, the ground floor is abundant with washrooms," you noted, puzzled, but shrugged it off. It was a ball, after all; the hall was crowded, and many guests were bound to seek the washrooms.

"They must have been occupied," Anthony offered with a slight shrug of his shoulders, extending his hand to you. "A dance, my lady?" Naturally, you accepted.

Anthony fulfilled his promise of granting you a second dance; however, he first bestowed upon your sister Charlotte her first. Even your mother was delighted with Sir Norris, observing them from a discreet distance as she conversed with the chaperones of other young ladies—no doubt striking agreements or merely exchanging gossip while granting the three of you sufficient space. Even so, she possessed the eyes of a hawk, and it was rare for her gaze to stray far from the four of you.

Your first dance of the evening had been with Anthony, before he danced with Charlotte and another gentleman introduced by your mother requested the pleasure of a dance. The conversation with Sir Ashford proved a welcome enough distraction to keep you from dwelling on the rigid feet that had undeniably stepped on your shoes more than once; he was politely agreeable, yet a dreadful dancer, and comparing him to another brilliant gentleman was entirely beyond your control.

"I have been pondering a great deal these past few days," Anthony murmured as he turned you in place, before returning his hand to hold your waist with precise firmness. It was your second dance of the night with him.

"I see," you replied. "Would you care to share your thoughts with me, Sir?"

Anthony continued to move to the rhythm, and judging by his expression and his silence, he was carefully measuring his words.

"It is common knowledge that I shall inherit the Ravenscroft estate, given that my brother is set to inherit Sidmouth," he began, earning a subtle nod from you as you listened with rapt attention despite the music and the turns of the dance. "And it is one of my greatest desires to take such fine company with me when the time comes to return after the end of the season."

You inhaled deeply, your chest rising beneath the subtle neckline of your dress.

"I have heard that the county of Cheshire is breathtaking beneath the autumn light," you offered carefully. "I doubt anyone could refuse the honor of admiring it."

Anthony's expression softened; you watched as his eyes danced between yours, looking at you with intense devotion. He drew a breath before speaking with a tender smile.

"If you will permit me the audacity... would I have your approval if I were to request an audience with your father in the coming week?" You felt a long sigh escape you, born of pure relief.

You wanted to kiss him. Never had you felt such an overwhelming urge to kiss anyone—not even the most gallantly attentive gentlemen of other ballrooms in seasons past—as much as you wished to kiss Anthony in that very moment.

"My father always receives gentlemen with great esteem, Sir Wesbury. I know he would not deny you a conversation in his study when the day comes."

"Most kind of him," Anthony murmured with a sigh of relief, bringing forth a laugh from the very depths of your chest.

The happiness you felt was surely shown in your face, but you couldn't even care less.

The solemn day arrived far more sluggishly than you would have preferred.

Perhaps it was merely your anxiety, or the plain fact that from the very moment Monday dawned, you waited with bated breath—seated upon the sofa before the grand bay window, embroidery in hand—for Sir Wesbury's promised arrival. Yet Anthony did not appear until Wednesday. Monday and Tuesday proved to be a quiet torment in which you forced yourself to find solace in mundane affairs: you organized the ribbons upon your mother’s bureau at least twice, and helped the cooks bake a cake out of sheer, restless boredom.

It was during the morning call, just after Wednesday’s breakfast, that he finally appeared. Mary was the first to glimpse him approaching the estate, rushing inside with such haste that she nearly stumbled upon the steps along her way.

"It is Sir Wesbury! He is coming this way!" she squealed with a radiant smile.

Charlotte’s gaze darted to you instantly, and your mother rose in a flurry, hastily gathering the belongings she had scattered across the small table.

"Quickly, hide the ribbons," she ordered, compelling the three of you to tidy the space you shared.

"Who?" your father inquired, lowering his newspaper to look at all three of you, his brow furrowed in utter bewilderment. He was ever the last to be informed of anything; nothing about it surprised you anymore.

"Mr. Wesbury," your mother replied in a hurried tone, sweeping all the ribbons into a hasty bundle inside their drawer. It pained you to recall the hours spent arranging them by shade just two days prior. "The gentleman who has been courting your daughter."

"Ah," he uttered simply, before retreating once more behind his newspaper. You swallowed nervously at his indifference, but there was no time to dwell on it, as a servant stepped into the room.

"Mr. Anthony Wesbury, Viscount of Ravenscroft," he announced, bowing before departing precisely as he had entered.

Your sisters swiftly seated themselves upon the armchairs before Anthony crossed the threshold, forcing an air of composure and indifference. A gentle smile rested upon his lips, yet the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed his underlying nervousness.

"My ladies," he said, bowing low in your presence.

"Sir Wesbury," your mother greeted him with an impeccable smile. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" she asked, feigning casual disregard.

Anthony swallowed hard before speaking.

"If your lordship permits, I should like to speak with Mr. [LastName] privately in his study for a few moments. There is a matter of utmost gravity I wish to lay before his consideration," he said, inclining his head slightly in a gesture of profound respect.

Your father’s newspaper rustled loudly in the quiet parlor. You dared not look at him directly, but you heard him rise from his chair.

"This way. Join me in the library."

You exhaled softly, releasing the breath you had been holding.

Anthony offered a bow to the four women in the room, and you watched him pass by your side, disappearing alongside your father into his private sanctuary. You longed for the chance to say something to him—perhaps to offer a word of courage—yet you knew etiquette afforded no such liberty.

The moment the door closed behind them, Charlotte leapt from her chair to sit beside you, taking your hand in a silent token of devotion. You could utter no words; you simply remained still for a fleeting second before returning to your embroidery, the sole tether keeping your sanity intact these past days.

"Mary!" you heard your mother whisper sharply. Turning around, you caught her hurrying toward the door to press her ear against it.

"Shhh..." she insisted, before your mother nudged her away.

It took roughly half an hour for Anthony to emerge from your father’s study, by which time you were nothing short of a bundle of nerves. You had been embroidering almost fiercely, while Charlotte read by your side and Mary assisted your mother in properly restoring the ribbons to their drawer. The silence had been deafening—neither man spoke loudly enough for a single word to cross the threshold, an agony for every woman in the room.

When you finally heard the door unlatch, standing up was an instinct. You watched the exact moment your father allowed Anthony out of the study; he looked... well, composed, almost relieved. As your eyes met, his features softened into that characteristic smile of his, making you sigh in silent relief.

"[Name], my dear. Step in here for a moment," your father called instead, stealing your gaze away from your betrothed.

"Yes, Father." You set your embroidery upon the armchair and passed by Anthony into the quiet study.

You could feel your heart hammering wildly against your chest as he closed the door behind you and walked over to sit at his desk.

"I presume you already know the purpose of Sir Wesbury's visit," he began. You exhaled silently, murmuring a soft "yes" that allowed him to continue. "He has expressed a most sincere affection for you... He came to request my consent to offer you his hand... provided that is your desire."

You could not help but let out a soft, bashful laugh.

"Oh, Father, there is nothing I desire more," you confessed in a hushed, shy tone. Your father’s expression softened ever so slightly upon hearing you. "All the other lords are so dull, and Anthony... he is so deeply charismatic." You covered your mouth, trying in vain to hide the fond smile blooming upon your lips.

"It brings me peace to know your heart is truly in it," your father said thoughtfully, nodding. "Yet you must consider that his income is four thousand pounds a year... a sum far more modest than ours, which may require sacrifices to which you are unaccustomed."

"Four thousand pounds a year is more than enough to live comfortably; I should want for nothing more," you replied with unwavering conviction.

Your father nodded in quiet contemplation, scratching the stubble on his chin as he pondered. He said nothing further, simply continuing his slow nod.

"Consider it settled, then," he stated decisively. "I shall dispatch a letter to the archbishop to request a special license for the marriage. Afterwards, we may discuss the time and place."

A breath escaped your lips before you rushed forward to embrace him tightly. Demonstrations of physical affection were rare between you and your father, yet you were far too happy to care. You felt him return the embrace gently, patting your arm before you released him with a glowing smile.

"Thank you, Father."

"And do extend to Sir Wesbury my invitation to join us for dinner tonight."

That evening’s dinner proved to be far more than a mere formality. Anthony was already waiting outside, exchanging occasional Words with your mother and two sisters. When you extended your father’s invitation, you were certain his eyes gleamed with something akin to delight—though at that moment, you could not have guessed the true reason behind it. It was to be the first time you officially shared a meal together.

Your intentions were clear as you attempted to persuade him to stay for the remaining hours.

"I ought to return to the estate to prepare a few things first, and to prepare myself as well," he declined gently. "I should hardly wish to dine with my fiancée looking like this."

You wanted to tell him that he looked quite handsome enough as he was, but you had no desire to make him feel obligated to stay if he had other matters to attend to first. Thus, you accompanied him to the door and watched him take his leave from the property.

"What does it feel like to have secured one of London’s most coveted bachelors?" your mother whispered behind you, watching his departing figure.

When you turned, a gentle smile rested upon her face; you could see the entire weight of the social season lifting from her shoulders. You knew all too well that the chief concern of a mother with four daughters was to secure them a prosperous future and a respectable husband. A wave of pride washed over you, knowing you had managed to captivate a proper gentleman—one blessed with good fortune and a lively, bubbling personality like Anthony's. It was not as though ladies of this era enjoyed the luxury of marrying purely for love, so you felt deeply grateful that your best option had turned out to be, in truth, the finest choice of all.

Your mother affectionately tucked a lock of hair behind your ear.

"I shall dress your hair for dinner," she decided then, kissing your forehead before stepping inside.

The remainder of your day before dinner was spent in study and practice. Before luncheon, you devoted a good hour to the pianoforte while Mary learned to embroider alongside your mother, and Charlotte, as ever, lost herself in her reading. After luncheon, you spent hours painting in a small study, until Mary interrupted to show her progress in embroidery and ask for your assistance. It was not until nearly six in the evening that you began to prepare for dinner.

Ordinarily, family dinners were rather casual affairs; there was no need for corsets, cosmetics, or grand gowns. Yet, with your newly betrothed as an invited guest, social etiquette demanded you appear at least presentable.

"Upon closer inspection, I believe Sir Wesbury's eyes are more blue than green," Charlotte remarked, browsing through your vast collection of dresses. "Like the hue of the sea on a sunlit day."

"You ought to wear a blue gown," Mary chimed in.

"Why must you both always try to match my dresses to the color of his eyes?" you asked, sitting upon the bed as your sisters took it upon themselves to decide for you.

"Because it is romantic," Mary replied, pushing past Charlotte to hold up a pale blue dress before you—one that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the shade of Anthony's eyes.

Not that it mattered, in any case. For that very reason, you ended up ignoring them both and choosing a pale pink gown with puffed sleeves, a square neckline, and delicate pearl detailing across the bodice.

When the clock struck precisely eight-three, Anthony arrived at your father’s estate for the second time that day, looking unfairly attractive.

"My lady," he greeted you, pressing a kiss to the knuckles of your hand with that devilish, almost arrogant poise that you had found captivating from the start.

You were relieved to find that the atmosphere remained comfortable once the food was served and everyone was seated. The room felt warm, glowing under the candlelight that illuminated the tableware. Your mother insisted you sit opposite one another, as etiquette forbade betrothed couples from sitting side by side.

"It is my absolute pleasure, on behalf of my wife and myself, to say that we could not be more delighted to welcome Sir Wesbury to our table," your father began, raising his wine glass, prompting everyone to follow suit almost immediately. "Not merely as a guest, but as one who shall soon become part of this family."

"Why am I not permitted to drink wine as well?" Mary asked in a low whisper beside you, causing you to lean in to reply.

"You may drink wine when you are of age, Mary... Besides, it is not particularly grand," you murmured, keeping your tone low enough for only her ears.

"For a mother, it is a profound joy and peace of mind to know her daughter shall be in the hands of so faultless a gentleman. It is an invaluable blessing," your mother added to your father’s toast, her cheeks flushed as much from the warmth of the room as from the silent effect of the sweet, fruity wine.

"Your words honor me deeply," Anthony replied with an equally dazzling smile. "The trust you have placed in me by bestowing your daughter’s hand is the greatest honor I have ever received."

You smiled as you watched him, feeling your cheeks and ears warm under the weight of the attention.

"His intentions are entirely reciprocal, Sir," you offered, almost shyly.

"A toast to that!" your father called from the head of the table, and everyone drank from their glasses in harmony.

A comfortable silence fell over the room for a few minutes, broken only by the quiet clink of cutlery against porcelain.

"We have planned our customary stroll through Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon. Now that your intentions are official, I hope you will join us in the carriage, Sir Wesbury," your mother resumed with a flawless smile, after finishing a bite of potato salad.

You watched Anthony chew and swallow before replying.

"An absolute privilege," he nodded. "I have also taken the liberty of securing a box at the Drury Lane Theatre for next Friday. I trust you will all honor me with your company for the performance."

"We accept with delight, my Lord," you answered, cutting a tender piece of meat from your plate. "They say this season’s production is quite exceptional."

From that moment on, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Your mother led most of it, flitting smoothly from one topic to the next: art, the interests you shared, the estate Anthony was set to inherit from his family, the wedding date, the health of his kin. There was hardly a subject left untouched that evening.

By the time Anthony prepared to take his leave, his steps were slightly unsteady. After bidding farewell to your entire family, your mother granted you leave to escort him to the door to bid your betrothed goodnight.

"It has been a thoroughly delightful evening," Anthony said with a sigh, his cheeks rosy from the wine, his words slurring ever so slightly. "To know that we shall soon share my home..."

"The gentleness with which you speak of our future brings peace to my heart," you whispered, feeling your chest swell with affection.

You saw him reach out a hand toward you.

"May I?"

You felt your heart leap against your ribs. You offered him your hand and watched him bend down to kiss your knuckles. But, moved by a sudden stroke of boldness, you leaned in at the same moment, catching his lips with yours.

It was a chaste touch, and the sheer surprise of it made you both pull back immediately. Anthony stared at you, his lips slightly parted, his brow furrowed in pure confusion.

Yet, there was not a trace of rejection in his eyes.

"We are not meant to... Etiquette does not—"

"When have you and I ever heeded etiquette, Sir?" you interrupted softly, a slight shyness creeping into your tone.

At that, Anthony relaxed, letting out a quiet, amused chuckle.

"You speak the truth," he admitted. However, he made no move to kiss you again, and you did not attempt it a second time.

"Until tomorrow, Sir Wesbury," you said, gently releasing his hand with a smile.

He offered a flushed, graceful bow. "Until tomorrow, my Lady. Sweet dreams."

And with that, Anthony departed.

You watched him fade into the night in silence, completely unaware that it would be the very last time you would see him for a long time to come.

Dear readers of The Morning Chronicle, hold tight to your teacups, for Mayfair’s high society is trembling to its very roots.

What began as a tranquil, sunlit morning ended in the most thunderous scandal of the season.

The Duke of Bristol himself has been stripped of his mantle of invincibility. The rumor that once drifted through the corridors, whispering of "treason against the Crown," is no longer mere conjecture, but a grim reality. The scene was worthy of the most dramatic of plays: the King’s officers arrived at the Duke’s monumental residence, invading his drawing rooms. Before the astonished gazes of the servants, they read the royal arrest warrants.

The distinguished Duke was escorted to a somber black carriage that swept him away directly into the shadows of the Tower. Yet behind the mansion's doors remains the true disaster: a devastated duchess and her three young daughters, reduced in a matter of hours to the utmost uncertainty. The family now finds itself adrift in a sea of debts and crown investigations. The question hovering over the Mayfair air is as cruel as it is inevitable: how ever will they manage to survive?

The vilest blow, however, falls upon one of the eldest daughters. The poor young lady must not only bear the heavy stain of a father imprisoned for treason, but also the cowardice of her supposed suitor. That distinguished gentleman, who was already regarded as her near-fiancé, had not been seen in the ballroom for days, and today, with the tragedy confirmed, the man has simply vanished into thin air.

How remarkably convenient it is for some to lose both memory and affection the very moment a fortune evaporates!

The young lady’s reputation lies utterly ruined, and the drawing rooms of high society will not be slow to turn their backs on her. In our beloved Regency, a father accused of treason is a tragedy, but to be left stranded by your betrothed before the eyes of all is a social sentence from which one rarely recovers.

I shall keep my ears tuned to the carriages and the letters. In the meantime, dear ladies and gentlemen, do remember to keep a firm grip on your crowns... one never knows when the ground beneath your feet may give way.

"Stand up straight, Charlotte, you are slumping," you muttered under your breath to your younger sister.

The ballroom was stifling. Not only did you have to endure the heat of an overcrowded, relatively small space, but you also had to appear completely unbothered under the watchful eyes of practically all of English high society.

Charlotte’s debut had been flawless, considering the position your family was in. Or rather, what was left of it.

After your father’s imprisonment on charges of high treason, you were left with nothing. The Crown had seized the estate registered in his name, and your mother had been forced to hurriedly seek shelter with one of her brothers. His standing was far from the comfortable life you once knew, but given the circumstances, none of you were in any position to utter a single complaint.

Your mother had been fiercely proud in adhering to the social timeline that had been set from the beginning, even if you had failed to secure a husband in the allotted time. Charlotte would make her debut right after you, and Mary would follow the next year upon coming of age. Now, you had to share these society events with your younger sister and pray to whichever god was listening that she wouldn't meet the same fate as you.

As for Anthony, you knew nothing. He had vanished a little less than a year ago, toward the end of the last social season. Just as the gossip columns so gleefully reported, he had disappeared into the summer wind without a word, leaving you heartbroken and your family ruined.

He had not only ruined your reputation—you had hoped that upon marrying, he would be kind enough to allow your family to reside on the same estate you lived in, saving them from ruin. But a week after the agonizing ordeal, you learned with heavy grief that his disappearance was not due to pressing matters of importance.

Anthony Wesbury had simply abandoned you.

"I am standing straight," Charlotte whispered urgently back. "I can't breathe in this damned corset. How do you endure it?"

"You would breathe much better if you stood properly," you whispered in response.

Your mother was only a few paces away, likely attempting to rebuild a decent reputation for her daughters. You adored her—the way she remained steadfast before the masses just to secure the best for her children. You couldn't hope to become anyone better than her. That is, if you could ever marry after the ordeal with Anthony.

Your chest still heavy with grief whenever you thought of him.

"Would you like some sparkling wine? It will ease your nerves," you murmured to Charlotte. She seemed to notice your newly relaxed composure and nodded.

"Please."

You placed a hand on her shoulder before slipping away through the crowd, signaling a swift departure. You needed to find a footman carrying drinks to help calm your tense sister.

You hadn't received a single proposal. It was to be expected. At least Charlotte had one or two gentlemen keeping a watchful eye on her. It was a true relief.

"My lady," someone called out, catching your attention. Turning around, you saw one of the stewards standing tall before you with a polite smile. "Sir Norris requests your presence."

Sir Norris. The host of the ball, whom you had not yet had the pleasure of meeting.

You furrowed your brow slightly. Why would he wish to see you specifically? And in private?

"Follow me, if you please."

Your curiosity had always been your greatest flaw.

You followed the man in silence, weaving through the crowd to the foyer, where he led you down a deserted hallway. He opened the door to a private chamber and stepped aside with a slight bow to let you in.

What you saw upon entering made your blood run cold.

Anthony Wesbury himself, dressed in his usual attire. Your heart sank into your stomach. You felt the sudden urge to fly at him, to strike him, kick him, scream, cry—and then kiss him.

You were only snapped out of your daze when you heard the door click shut behind you.

"My lady," he greeted softly, offering a bow. He bore no smile; he looked quite grave. A bit of a beard and mustache had grown in, making him look unfairly handsome.

And you hated yourself for still finding him handsome.

"How ought I address you, Sir?" you asked with guarded coldness. "I was told Sir Norris required my presence."

"[Name]..." he began gently before letting out a sigh.

"At the very least, it is a relief to know you are alive and well rather than dead in a ditch," you said, unable to bite your tongue any longer.

"I apologize for leaving in such a manner," Anthony said carefully. "But I had reasons... good reasons."

"And would you care to explain those reasons?" you interrupted, holding your head high. "I believe a former betrothed deserves to know. It is the least you owe me."

You watched him nod and lower his gaze for a moment, clearly bracing himself to speak the truth.

"My name is not Anthony Wesbury." Your chest tightened with anguish, but you held your ground. "It is Lando Norris. And I am no viscount of any estate—I work as a spy for the Crown."

"I beg your pardon?" You blinked, staring at Anthony—or Lando—with a furrowed brow and eyes brimming with tears. Had it all been a lie?

"I had to conceal my true identity to protect the mission I was assigned to," Lando explained hastily, seeing the expression on your face. "And that is the only thing I have ever lied to you about, my lady."

"The only thing?" you repeated, your voice trembling. "Can you truly swear that your intentions with me were honorable?"

You saw him hesitate for a fraction of a second and let out a humorless huff, turning your head away to hide a foolish tear that had escaped. You couldn't bear this.

"Your father was accused of high treason against the Crown," Lando said quietly. "That was my doing."

You whipped your head back to him, stunned.

"Not only have you ruined my reputation, but you have also managed to leave my family destitute," you breathed out, utterly distraught.

"[Name]," Lando called sternly. "Your father was caught using his fleet to strike deals with enemies of the Crown. He played both sides to advance his own wealth, and there is no crime more severe. I found the proof in his study—"

"You used me," you whispered, your voice shaking. Just when you thought nothing else could shatter your perception of him any further.

He crossed the room in two long strides and gently cupped your face with both hands. His hands were large, completely framing your cheeks, and you only allowed it because you hadn't had time to react—and because you were weak. You were utterly weak for this man.

"I assure you, I did not. I never intended to fall in love with you," he murmured.

"How dare you speak of love?" you asked, thoroughly offended.

"It is the truth." Lando gave you that look. The one where his eyes softened, where he gazed intently at your face, tracing every feature, his pupils dilating from the sheer proximity. "That is why I returned. To offer you a solution to your predicament."

"With all due respect, Sir," you sniffled, "I highly doubt you possess anything that could fix my family's ruin."

"Marry me," he cut in, his tone bordering on eager. "Marry me as we originally agreed. Allow me to take care of your family. I will settle your mother and sisters in a fine estate and provide for them for the rest of their lives, if only you give me your hand."

You let out a shaky breath, your mind reeling. This man had sent your father to prison, condemned him under the highest offense in the land, destroyed your reputation, and cast your family into misery.

And now, he was offering a way out. He was standing tall in front of you, offering what you only used to dream about months ago.

"Let me mend what I broke," Lando urged in a low voice. "And let me prove to you that I speak the truth. That I have been devoted to you from the moment I first saw you speaking with those other gentlemen. That no other lady could ever evoke such feelings in me as you do."

"Lando," you whispered. His name—his real name—felt so foreign yet so right on your lips.

He wiped your tears away with his thumb, his gaze dropping to your lips with something akin to hunger.

"You will never go hungry again," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "And I will never allow anyone to speak of you with disdain ever again. Never."

Your lips trembled as tears welled in your eyes once more. Anguish and relief warred within you, carving a hollow ache in your chest.

"Very well," you agreed in a faint whisper before he closed the distance between you with a proper kiss. A real kiss.

And you could feel just how starved he was for you by the way he tilted his head, holding yours firmly to pour his devotion into your mouth, his tongue tracing your upper lip before pulling your lower one between his own.

"Very well," you repeated between kisses.