#lads regency

You do not turn at the voice. Eleanora drifts into the edge of the window’s reflection, every curl in place, every line of her pale rose gown already settled and smoothed days ago. Her confidence has never been the loud kind. It is something inherited, worn the way other women wear a coat in cold weather: simply, and without thought.

“I am excited.” Your chin stays in your palm; you do not turn from the window. “I am vibrating with anticipation, in fact. Can’t you tell?”

Her laugh is soft and quick, and the cushion sinks gently as she lowers herself beside you. “Mother is convinced I shall have a proper proposal by the second ball.”

“That is rather optimistic of her.” You hadn’t meant to say it quite so flatly, but the words leave you that way all the same.

“She is not wrong.” Eleanora’s fingers tug at a thread on her sleeve, more for something to do than because the thread is loose. “There is already talk of it. Lady Whitcombe swears the Duke of Ravencourt will be at the Astor Ball, and he, well...” She give you a sidelong glance, a small tilt of her brow. “You know how long the arrangement has been in place.”

Ah, him.

The name goes through you like a draft from a door you hadn’t realized was open. Rafayel Vale, the future Duke of Ravencourt, promised to your sister since the two of them were small enough to need help into their chairs at the dinner table, in one of those quiet family agreements made over wine glasses and sealed with handshakes and signatures and fortunes you have never been shown. You have never met him. You have never even seen him. You have only ever heard of him, year after year, the way one hears of distant places one will likely never visit.

He rarely comes to town, they say. He has been abroad for years. He is peculiar, brilliant but peculiar, and collects old paintings and refuses invitations and has shown no interest in courtship at all, except for the one chosen for him before he was old enough to object: your sister’s.

The thought slips out of you before you can soften it. “I wonder if he is dreadfully boring.”

Eleanora’s laugh is half a snort, half a sigh, and her shoulders give a small, amused shake. “He is a Duke, darling. I am hardly expected to love him. Only to keep myself from embarrassment over the soup.”

You turn toward her then, resting the side of your face against the window frame, and look at her the way you sometimes do when you forget to arrange your own expression.

“Do you mind it?” You hear how soft your voice has gone, and you do not try to correct it. “That you have never met him. That it has all been arranged.”

For a moment her composure holds. Then it slips, very quietly, only at the corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes.

“I mind being married off like a trinket.” Her gaze drifts down to the gloves still folded in her lap. “And I mind not having a choice. But choices, these days, are only afforded to girls who marry well.”

After a delicate pause she straightens in her seat, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, the smile she finds for you almost bright, and reserved only for you. “You shall have more freedom, you know. You are not promised to anyone.”

No, you are not. Not the eldest and not the heir-maker, only the afterthought in pearls. And yet freedom feels a fragile thing inside this house, wrapped as it is in expectation and powdered into rouge and fastened at the back by hands that are not your own.

A knock at the door interrupts the quiet between you, and the door creaks open on a maid mid-curtsy.

“The carriage is ready, Misses. Madam says the ball waits for no Lady.”

Eleanora rises in one practiced sweep, all silk and perfect posture. You follow more slowly, smoothing your skirt against your palms because your palms need something to do. In the mirror by the door, your rouge sits too pink against your cheeks, and the smile you offer the girl in the glass arrives a half-beat late, as though she had to be reminded of it.

Somewhere in the city, a man you have never met is also dressing for the evening. You step out into the corridor, and the carriage is waiting in the drive, and your gloves are too tight at the wrists.

And with that, the Season has begun.

—

The ballroom glitters like a dream dipped in gold. Chandeliers bloom overhead, throwing crystals of light across silk gowns and polished floors; laughter curls around the violins, and perfumed fans flutter like butterfly wings in time with the slow rise of the orchestra. It is the first ball of the Season, and every eligible family in London has come to play its part.

Your mother insisted on white for your debut: soft chiffon, pearl beading at the waist, sleeves cut just off the shoulder. You feel like a porcelain doll being moved across a chessboard, and you keep your shoulders very still so the feeling does not show on your face.

Eleanora is art. One glance at her, and the suitors flock like moths to a flame; her rose-colored gown shimmers with every turn she takes, her laughter falls into all the right places, and she dances as though she had been born to do it, which she likely was. You do not particularly mind. You sip your champagne near the edge of the floor, offering a polite nod to a young gentleman who has only just tripped over his own shoes trying to reach her before the next waltz.

“She is rather enchanting, your sister.”

You turn. A tall, freckled young man stands beside you, his cheeks faintly flushed with wine, his smile a little crooked at the corners. “Though I confess I find myself rather more curious about the other debutante at her side.”

Your brows lift. “Curious, My Lord? Or drunk?”

His laugh comes easy, with no offence taken at all. “Both, perhaps. May I have the next dance?”

You hesitate only a moment before placing your hand in his. The music rises, and so do you. You dance twice, once with the freckled gentleman (Lord Daniel something, you think), and again with a kind-eyed Viscount who fumbles through his small talk but smiles handsomely when you turn one of his fumbles into wit. You laugh. You curtsy. You do everything you are meant to do.

It is impossible, however, to ignore how the room revolves around your sister. She has not left the floor since the first chord struck. A new partner with every song, an admiring audience wherever she pauses. You catch glimpses of her between the turns of your own, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks faintly flushed, her posture as perfect now as it was on the carriage cushion hours ago.

And then, somewhere just behind your shoulder, an intrigued whisper.

“Did you see? The Duke of Ravencourt is here.”

The name slips between fans like a small kept secret.

“I thought he would not attend.”

“He never does. But this Season, well, everyone knows why.”

“He is to marry the Everleigh girl, isn’t he?”

“The older one, yes. They say it was arranged when they were five.”

“And is it true he…”

You turn too quickly, a little louder in your own bones than you would like, looking for the voice and the source of it. But all you find are swirling gowns and smiling mouths and the soft, indifferent glitter of the chandeliers. No sign of him. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter beneath the silk of your bodice, a small, uneven kick you cannot quite explain to yourself. You have heard the name all your life, and yet he is here, somewhere, breathing the same air as you, and somehow that is a stranger thought than you would have guessed.

Eleanora laughs again, that musical sound carrying across the dance floor as she turns in the arms of a dark-haired gentleman you do not recognise. Perhaps it is him. Perhaps not. You watch, you listen, but Rafayel Vale, the Duke of Ravencourt, remains as elusive as his reputation, still nothing more than a name and a whisper.

Another glass of champagne is pressed gently into your hand, your third of the evening, perhaps your fourth. The effervescence prickles pleasantly against your lips, the sweetness fresh but not quite cool enough to settle the flush that has climbed into your cheeks after so many turns about the floor. You have danced with no fewer than six gentlemen by now, each perfectly polite, each thoroughly forgettable.

“You dance with such elegance, Miss Everleigh.”

“Your sister is fortunate to have you at her side.”

“Might I call on you this upcoming week?”

You smile. You curtsy. You return civility for civility. But your mind has long since drifted elsewhere, pulled by curiosity, by the soft, persistent weight of a name that keeps brushing past your ear like a breeze you cannot quite catch. Rafayel Vale. The Duke of Ravencourt. And still, no one points him out. No introductions, no dramatic arrival, no parting of the crowd. You are beginning to suspect he has not come at all, despite the whispers, despite the excitement that had rippled through the room earlier like a pebble dropped into still water.

You are about to take your leave from the floor when you catch the flicker of it. A subtle change in the air. The orchestra has not stopped, nor have the conversations, and yet for a single breath the room itself seems to hush, the way a forest goes still when a hawk passes overhead. You turn, and there, just beyond the far end of the ballroom, near the top of the grand marble stairs, stands a man dressed in midnight black.

No one announces him. He does not need announcement. He stands with one hand loosely gloved, the other resting against the gold edge of the balustrade, and surveys the ballroom below with an expression that does not demand attention so much as quietly require it. He is beautiful in the way storms are beautiful: elegant, distant. Dangerous. His hair is of a beautiful, striking purple and long enough that the soft waves brush the collar of his coat. And his eyes, even from across the distance, are sharp and watchful, mesmerizing as two pools of blue and pink, his jaw cutting cleanly beneath the candlelight.

You do not need to ask who he is. You already know, deep below your ribs, where things that you just know settle.

Just behind your shoulder, someone leans toward someone else. “Ah, there he is. The Duke.” Only confirming what your pulse has already done.

He descends the stairs unhurriedly, greeting no one, walking with the easy disinterest of a man who is not in the habit of trying to impress, and yet every head in the room turns toward him as he moves. Even Eleanora’s. You watch her gaze snap upward, watch the moment his eyes find hers, only for a breath, only long enough to acknowledge what is already understood between two families. Then, with an unflinching grace, he crosses the ballroom and offers your sister a bow.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and refined and controlled, like water flowing over stones.

Your sister curtsies, perfect as ever. “Your Grace.”

And for the first time in your life, you are standing only a few feet away from the man who has, without ever having known your face, been promised to your family since before you could spell his name. So that is him, at last. The man whose name has been stitched into the fabric of your family's future like gold thread, the Duke your mother speaks of in hushed and reverent tones, the one your sister was destined for before she had even learned how to flirt or curtsy properly.

You do not linger on the sight of them. You watch only long enough to see Eleanora extend her hand, and to watch him take it with a bow that is too shallow to be entirely respectful, and yet too quietly attentive to be entirely proper, which is interesting, you think, but it is not your concern. You turn away.

“Miss Everleigh.”

You face the gentleman waiting beside you with a smile sharpened just enough to cut through the soft fog of champagne. “Lord Renswick.” A small dip into a curtsy. “Have you finally decided to brave the dance floor?”

His grin is sheepish at the corners. “It is hardly bravery, when the reward is a turn with the loveliest debutante of the evening.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Flattery, My Lord? We have not even danced yet.”

“I am hoping to improve your opinion of me before I embarrass myself entirely.” He offers his arm, his brow lifting in hopeful invitation. “Shall we?”

You allow him to lead you into the next waltz, your slippers barely whispering against the marble. You dance, and you laugh, and when he stumbles, you tease him gently for it. Another gentleman approaches you before the music fades, and then another, and the evening passes in a soft haze of pleasantries and compliments, of silk gloves and careful steps and smiles that never quite reach your eyes.

You are being seen, properly seen, not merely as Eleanora’s sister but as yourself. And yet somewhere beneath the swirl of figures and the murmured invitations, you keep catching the soft, persistent sound of his name.

“The Duke has not danced with anyone else as much as he did with her.”

“He spent nearly the entire evening in conversation with Miss Everleigh.”

“They are to be married before summer, I hear.”

You do not seek him out, not deliberately. But you notice all the same, how he does not hover near the punch and does not court attention, how he simply exists, like a line drawn in darker ink than the rest of the room. Eleanora has his company almost exclusively; they speak often, their heads bent slightly toward one another, and she laughs in that polished way she perfected during her finishing school years. You catch him smile only once, perhaps twice, or perhaps you imagine it. He offers his hand to two other ladies for a dance, both times out of a clear and impersonal courtsy, and both ladies look slightly dazed when he returns them to their chaperones.

By the time the final waltz begins, you have found your way back near the windows again. A gentle breeze drifts through the open panes; the sky outside is deep and velvet blue, dotted with the soft promise of rain. You press your fingertips to the glass for the cool of it, and behind you the ballroom glitters on. Your sister is still dancing with him.

So that is the man who will be her husband, you think again, and you do not envy her, not truly. He is distant, unreadable, a mystery, but not a mystery that is yours to solve. You are only a little curious, after so many years of hearing his name in whispers, and curiosity is a small enough thing that you can put it down again whenever you like.

The ride home is quiet at first. Outside the carriage window, London twinkles beneath the night sky, the gas lamps glowing like stars caught in glass, and the wheels clatter softly over the cobblestones in the rhythmic lull that always comes after a long evening of dancing. Inside, you sit across from your sister, your gloves resting delicately in your lap, your fan still tucked in your hand more from habit than from any continuing need of it.

Your mother sighs for the fifth time in as many minutes, fanning herself furiously though the carriage is hardly warm.

“Well, I should say that was a most successful beginning to the Season.” Her voice carries all the breathless theatre it always does after an evening she considers a triumph. “Eleanora, darling, you were radiant. Simply radiant. And you, dearest,” her gaze moves to you, soft with the kind of approval she reserves for unexpected moments, “you were charming. I heard Lord Pelham himself compliment your wit, you know. Wit, my love. Not merely your appearance. A rare thing, that.”

You offer a faint smile. “How generous of him.”

Eleanora’s quiet chuckle is half-lit by the carriage lantern, and there is a strange softness in her expression, a contentment you do not often see outside the privacy of moments like these.

Your mother lifts her fan again. “Six dances. Four requests for calling hours. And, oh, did you see Lady Renswick watching your every move?”

“I did.” Eleanora’s voice is low and amused. “She nearly dropped her fan when the Duke took my hand.”

Your mother’s fan stops mid-wave, her expression shifting into something very nearly reverent. “The Duke. Good heavens. I still cannot quite believe he came. I had truly thought we should have to drag him out of some crumbling estate by force.”

“He was…” Eleanora pauses, her gaze drifting briefly to the window, the lamplight catching faintly in her eyes. “Unexpected. Not at all what I had imagined.”

You look at her then, with quiet intrigue. “What did you imagine?”

She tilts her head, the consideration moving slowly across her face. “Someone older, perhaps. Someone colder. Less sharp than he is. He does not speak much, but when he does, it is never empty.”

You hum. “And?”

Her smile is small and knowing. “He pays attention to everything around him.”

You raise a brow. “Even you?”

A shrug, the smallest lift of her shoulder beneath the silk. “Especially me.”

Your mother gives a delicate gasp of delight and resumes her fanning with renewed vigour. “Well, then it is settled. We shall expect him to call within the next two days. Perhaps even sooner, given how much time he spent at your side this evening.”

“I do not think he is the sort of man to follow expected schedules.” Eleanora’s gaze does not leave the window.

You do not say it aloud, but you find yourself agreeing with her. You lean your head against the inside of the carriage wall, watching the lantern light flicker softly over your gloves.

The Season has begun. Your sister’s future, the one stitched in gold and promise, is unfolding in front of all of you. And somewhere in the shadows of it, a man made of whispers has finally stepped into the light.

—

The garden smells of lilacs and early rain. Sunlight spills over the hedgerows in gold-tipped strokes, catching on the rim of your teacup as you sit beneath the shade of the wide ivory parasol. Bees hum lazily between the roses. A soft breeze stirs the hem of your skirt and carries with it the faintest, fading echo of music from last night’s ball, as though the violins have not quite let you go.

You swirl honey into your tea absently, listening to the soft murmur of your sister and your mother seated nearby. They are reading from The Society Pages, their lips twitching with every name mentioned.

“Lord Eastmere danced four times with Lady Henrietta. That will certainly be remarked upon." Your mother’s nose lifts in delicate disapproval.

“And here, oh, listen. ‘Miss Eleanora Everleigh glowed in rose silk and grace, receiving the attention of none other than the elusive Duke of Ravencourt.’”

“They flatter.” Eleanora’s eyes gleam over the rim of her teacup, despite the lightness in her voice.

You do not comment. You let the sound of the page turning fade into birdsong and breeze.

The first caller arrives before noon. The butler appears at the edge of the garden with the perfect composure his post demands. “Miss Everleigh. Lord Renswick requests a moment of your time.”

You rise, smoothing the folds of your skirt, and offer a pleasant smile as the young Lord is shown through the open doors and into the dappled green of the garden.

He bows. “Miss Everleigh. Might I say, the morning pales in comparison to your presence.”

You do not roll your eyes, though it is a near thing. “Good morning, My Lord. How kind of you to visit.”

He speaks of the ball, of your dancing, of how he had hoped to see you again. You answer with grace, with interest even, but something inside you stays carefully unmoved. He is not unpleasant. None of them are. They simply lack a thing you cannot quite name and have not yet decided whether to name at all.

A second gentleman comes not long after. A third arrives in the late afternoon with a bouquet of spring blooms and an awkward compliment about your voice. Each caller is welcomed; each is given your attention, your politeness, your laughter in the right places. And yet, with every charming smile and gloved hand pressed briefly to yours, you find your thoughts drifting elsewhere, slipping out of your own garden and toward a pair of eyes that have not yet sought you out, and that you have not quite admitted to yourself you are waiting for.

By the time the sun begins to lower, streaking the garden in amber, the butler reappears once more at the edge of the lawn. You glance up, brushing a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. “Yes?”

He clears his throat gently and bows. “No further callers for the day, Miss.”

You nod, not disappointed, not expectant, only thoughtful. “Thank you.”

You return to your tea, now gone cool. Across from you, Eleanora has set aside her book and is absently turning the stem of a rose between her fingers, slow as a clock that has forgotten the hour.

“He has not called.” Her voice is soft and unbitter.

You look up. “The Duke?”

A small nod. “Not that I expected him to arrive the next morning with a bouquet and a poem. But he did say he would be in town this week.”

You sip your tea. “He does not seem the type to rush.”

“No. He is not.” Her tone holds no bitterness, only plain observation. Eleanora has never been a girl who chased affection. She has always expected it to arrive on its own terms, in its own time, and she has rarely been wrong.

You glance toward the garden gate. The warm breeze rustles the hedges, but no footsteps come. Still, it is early. Much too early to assume anything.

By evening the callers are gone, your mother is content, and your sister is thoughtful in that quiet way of hers. You are content to watch and to listen and to wait for the Season to unfold as it always does, slowly, elegantly, and with its own peculiar sense of order. If the Duke is to be part of your sister’s story, he will arrive in time. And if he does not, well, that, too, would be telling.

—

The gown is periwinkle this time, threaded with pale silver and pinned at the shoulders with clusters of tiny sapphires. You say nothing as your maid fastens it, only watching your reflection in the mirror with a mild detachment while she smooths the folds. Eleanora has gone through three dresses before settling on one.

“Do you think he will be there tonight?” Eleanora’s voice is carefully even, her gaze fixed on the curls your mother is arranging at the crown of her head.

You know who she means. “I imagine so. It is Lady Warwick’s ball.”

It is the third time she has asked this week. He has not called once. Not even a letter. After all the glances and the evening spent in her company, the conversations near the card tables, the dance the rest of the room could not stop noticing, there has been nothing. Even the Ton has begun to murmur about it. The papers have commented, their tone careful but curious.

Your mother is trying to stay composed, and almost succeeding. “He is a Duke, darling. He is dreadfully busy, I am sure of it. Arrangements, estates, affairs of business. Men like him do not spend their days penning sonnets and waiting in parlours.”

But it is not poetry Eleanora wants. It is certainty. And he, with all his poise and polish, has offered her none.

Lady Warwick’s ballroom is suffused with gold light and the scent of blooming orange blossoms. The crowd is lively, the musicians sharp and practised, and by the time you arrive, the dancing has already begun.

You make your greetings, you smile when expected, you allow a young baron to compliment your hair. You even laugh once, genuinely this time. Eleanora remains composed beside you, her gown elegant, her posture perfect. But you know her well enough to read the small flicker of restlessness in her eyes. Where is he?

You see him the moment he steps into the room. He is dressed in dark navy and silver this evening, a sapphire brooch pinned at his collar. He does not linger at the entrance and does not pause for greetings. He moves straight through the ballroom, parting the crowd with nothing more than presence, and then there he is, standing in front of your sister.

“Miss Everleigh.” His bow goes deeper than the one he offered last time. “I owe you an apology.”

Your sister blinks once, the surprise quickly tucked away. “Your Grace.”

He reaches into his coat. From his gloved hand, he draws a small, velvet-wrapped box and places it delicately in her palm.

“For my absence.” His voice is quiet and measured. “I assure you, it was not meant as discourtesy.”

You do not look away from them, but you do not move, either. A quiet statue at your sister’s side. Eleanora opens the box slowly. Inside is a brooch, silver filigree shaped like a crescent moon, a pale gemstone set in its centre. It is not extravagant, nor loud. It is tasteful, and rare, and very beautiful.

“You needn’t have.” Her voice has gone softer.

“I did.” A small, deliberate pause. “May I claim a dance, if you have not promised it to another?”

She hesitates only a moment. “Of course, Your Grace.”

You step back as he offers his arm. She takes it. They move to the floor once more, the crowd subtly turning to watch, and you remain at the edge of the dance floor, untouched by the small drama of it, your fingers gently clasped in front of you, your thoughts still clear.

You do not watch them dance. Not because it hurts, because it does not. Not because you are jealous, because you are not. But because watching feels unnecessary. It is predictable. Rafayel Vale has returned, and he has returned to your sister’s side as he was meant to, as he has been for years, in name if not yet in affection. So you turn away, and you smile when another gentleman bows before you.

“My Lady.” His voice is smooth and warm, like polished amber. “You have been standing far too long without a partner. Might I correct such a tragedy?”

You lift your eyes to the gentleman before you. He is striking, but not in the brooding, storm-swept way the Duke is. No, this man wears charm like a perfectly tailored coat: light brown hair elegantly curled, a golden signet ring on his right hand, a smile that curls ever so slightly at the edge as though he knows something you do not. And his title?

“Lord Wessex.” His bow is elegant. “Second son of the Marquess of Clarendon. Though I am told I am the more tolerable of the two.”

Your brows lift, amused. “You have quite the opinion of yourself, My Lord.”

His grin is unrepentant. “Only when it is justified. May I?”

You place your gloved hand in his.

Lord Wessex is a skilled dancer. Not just in form but in conversation. Where the others have asked the same tired questions (what are your hobbies, do you enjoy embroidery), he asks instead about the books you read, the places you wish to see, the way your eyes light up when speaking of the sea, despite the fact that you have never once seen it in person.

He keeps you laughing, and thinking, and on your toes. And when he leads you to the refreshments table, he does not hover or smother. He offers you a glass, nods warmly at your appreciation, and keeps the conversation moving like a current pulling you along beside him.

“They speak of your sister and His Grace as though the match is already sealed.” His gaze drifts toward the couple in question, his smile still in place but quieter now.

“It was arranged.” You keep your voice light. “A long time ago.”

“Arranged." He turns the word in his mouth like a pebble, considering. “Such a word leaves so little room for choice, doesn’t it?”

You glance at him. “Do you not believe in arrangements, My Lord?”

“I believe in lightning strikes.” His eyes find yours. “Not family bargains.”

You tilt your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Then I suppose the Ton must frustrate you endlessly.”

His laugh is warm and unforced. “You have no idea, Miss Everleigh.”

By the end of the evening you have danced with him twice more, once by his request and once by your own quiet invitation, and both times have left your cheeks flushed and your thoughts pleasantly tangled. And while your sister ends the night with the Duke at her side, the talk of the room once more, it is not his presence that lingers on your skin as you step into the carriage. It is Lord Wessex’s voice still echoing in your ear, unhurried and certain.

Lightning strikes when you least expect it, Miss Everleigh. I do hope I am standing close when it happens.

—

The sun has barely settled above the rooftops when the butler appears in the parlour, his expression neutral, his voice carrying just enough weight to make the room pause.

“Lord Wessex and the Duke of Ravencourt have both requested to call this morning.”

Your mother nearly drops her embroidery. Your sister freezes with her teacup held in midair.

You simply blink. “Both?”

The butler inclines his head. “They await in the front drawing room, Miss.”

For a moment, no one moves. Then your mother claps her hands together as though summoned by divine will.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Eleanora, you look lovely, that gown is ideal. And you, dear, yes, you will stay. It would be rude not to.”

You almost laugh. Rude, of course.

The drawing room has been polished to near-blinding shine. There are fresh flowers in the vases, just slightly overdone. The maids have barely finished arranging the tea service before the two men are escorted in.

The Duke enters with the same quiet command he carried at the ball, dressed in a dark coat with silver cufflinks, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. His bow is effortless, and his gaze settles on Eleanora with a soft nod.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice is low and even. “Thank you for allowing me the visit.”

Eleanora curtsies, serene as ever. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.”

And beside him, light where Rafayel is shadow, stands Lord Wessex, smiling, charming, all pale waistcoat and sunlit presence. His gaze finds you almost immediately.

“Miss Everleigh.” His warmth is unmissable. “I confess I feared you might have forgotten me since last night.”

You raise a brow. “That would have been quite the feat, My Lord, considering how many times you stepped on my slipper.”

His grin only widens. “A bold accusation. Perhaps I should call more often, in defence of my honour.”

Tea is served. The Duke sits beside Eleanora; their conversation is soft and low and careful, words about estates, about travel, about the architecture of Bath. You and Lord Wessex, on the other hand, drown in laughter and playful remarks: a small joke about your mother’s over-watered lilies, a question about your favourite poet that, unlike the others, he actually listens to the answer of. He watches you speak with a kind of gentle interest that is easy to receive, and easy to enjoy. The Duke, for his part, never once looks your way.

The next party is held on the sprawling estate of Lord and Lady Pembroke, beneath cream-coloured canopies and strings of flowers that flutter like silk ribbons in the breeze. There are games set up on the lawn, and plates of sugared strawberries, and lemon water and delicate ices passed on silver trays. You walk beside Eleanora, both of you fresh-faced in pastels: a lilac gown for her, a pale blue for you. And they are there, of course, as they always seem to be now.

The Duke stands tall and composed in a dark grey coat, close beside your sister beneath the shade of an old ash tree, listening as she speaks, offering a quiet smile when she makes some soft remark. And across the lawn stands your suitor, Lord Wessex, lounging like he belongs in every summer painting ever made. When he catches sight of you, his expression lights up at once.

“Miss Everleigh.” He rises with one graceful movement, his voice warm and unfeigned. “You have saved me from the tortures of idle company. Walk with me?”

You glance at your sister. She gives you the faintest nod. And so you do. You walk the gardens with him, speaking of travel and philosophy and music you are not strictly supposed to enjoy. He plucks a wildflower from the hedgerow and offers it to you. You laugh and tell him it clashes terribly with your gloves.

And when you pause to rest beneath the roses, you find yourself glancing across the lawn. The Duke is still there, though he has shifted, standing now a few steps behind your sister as she speaks to another couple, and his posture is not what it was. His gaze is no longer on Eleanora. It is on you. Not direct, not rude, but unmistakable in its direction. A flicker of awareness. A moment caught like a breath held between pages of a book. And then, as though realising it himself, he looks away, just as Lord Wessex turns to say something clever that pulls another laugh out of you.

The grand hall is glowing. Every window has been draped in silk, every chandelier lit to bursting. The air shimmers with perfume and warm anticipation, and music pours from the raised platform where a quartet plays its first waltz of the evening.

You have barely stepped two feet beyond the threshold when he appears.

“Miss Everleigh.” Lord Wessex stands handsomely turned out in dark green, his cravat pinned with a gold brooch shaped like a fox, his smile brighter than the chandeliers themselves. “I was hoping to steal your hand before some other poor soul got the chance.”

You lift your chin. “You assume I would say yes, My Lord.”

His bow goes low and theatrical. “I rely entirely on hope and your mercy.”

You let out a soft laugh and extend your gloved hand. “Very well, Lord Wessex. Just this once.”

His expression turns triumphant. The dance is effortless. You move together as though you have done it a hundred times before; you know he will make a joke right before the turn, and that he will lean in slightly before the dip, just close enough to make your skin warm but never improper, never forward. He is a gentleman with a wild spark.

Afterward, he offers his arm and guides you to the refreshment table, refusing to let a single foppish lordling cut in. You spend the next hour beside him, talking and sipping chilled wine and laughing once so hard that you have to hide your face behind your fan. He makes it easy. He makes you feel seen.

Across the ballroom, the Duke is at your sister's side once more. They speak in quiet tones. He escorts her to a dance, then to another, though that one is not hers but another lady's, partnered with him out of expected courtesy. His face remains unreadable, his words careful. But every time your laughter rings out, or your gown brushes past the edge of the room, his eyes find your silhouette, just for a second.

Lord Wessex offers you another dance before the night ends, and you accept without hesitation. The Duke, for his part, asks for none of you. But he does watch, just once more, as you dance away with another man, your laughter drifting like perfume behind you.

—

The bell above the door gives a soft chime as you step inside. It is cooler here, and dimmer, the thick scent of paper and aged wood pressing gently around you like a familiar shawl. Shelves tower around you, heavy with worn spines and leather bindings, a world apart from ballrooms and fans and powdered smiles.

You pull off one glove and tuck it beneath your arm as you wander. Most ladies prefer the modiste, the milliner, the tea room on Hanover Street where the windows let in perfect sunlight. But here, in the dust-warm hush of a bookshop, you can breathe.

You find yourself in the poetry section, of course, your bare fingertips brushing the titles, your brow slightly furrowed as you search for something half-remembered, alone with your own thoughts.

Until a soft shift of leather soles catches your ear. You turn, expecting a clerk, and freeze.

He stands not three paces from you, dressed in deep blue, no cravat, no gloves, simpler than you have ever seen him and no less composed for it. The Duke of Ravencourt. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The absurdity of it makes your lips twitch faintly, of all the places, of all the afternoons. He regards you with that same unreadable expression of his, as though he were trying to make sense of something.

“Miss Everleigh.” His voice, when it comes, is low and measured. “This is unexpected.”

You curtsy, very slightly, regaining your composure. “Your Grace. I might say the same.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the book in your hand: Keats, you realise, only now. Then back to your face. “Do you favour poetry?”

“On quiet days. And on rainy ones.”

He nods, almost to himself. “A fine choice.”

You wait, wondering whether he will say more. He does not.

“And you, Your Grace?” There is a touch of amusement laced through your words, in spite of yourself. “Are you here for poetry, or for politics?”

His lips curve, only just. “Neither. I prefer philosophy. Or anything with weight to it.”

Your brow arches. “Is that so, Your Grace?”

He looks at you for a long moment, still distant, but not unkind.

“I did not expect to find you here.” His admission comes after the silence has stretched long enough to mean something. “But I am not displeased.”

Your heartbeat ticks once, then twice, soft and uneven beneath your bodice.

“Nor am I, Your Grace.” You keep your voice quiet. “But I shall let you return to your… weighty thoughts."

He inclines his head. “And you to your verse.”

You curtsy, slight but proper. He bows in return. There are no lingering glances, no breathless goodbyes, only a few pleasantries exchanged, two minds acknowledged, and a silence between them that somehow says more than the words have.

—

It is one of those warm spring afternoons when everything feels too golden to be entirely real. The garden terrace is full of soft laughter and the rustle of silk gowns; ladies fan themselves under the shade trees, while gentlemen cluster near the wine table, discussing horses, Parliament, and who had worn what at last Thursday’s dinner. You arrive beside your mother, your carriage late by fifteen minutes for a wheel that needed adjusting.

“Smile, darling.” Your mother adjusts your glove without asking. “Your sister may be absent, but you mustn’t let that reflect poorly on the family. A touch of colour in your cheeks would not hurt either.”

You smile. You nod. You adjust. Eleanora woke this morning feeling unwell, no fever, but pale and weak, and your mother would never permit a less-than-perfect appearance at a public affair. Her instructions earlier had been gentle but firm. You will attend in her place. Just be seen, dearest. And speak kindly if anyone asks after her.

So now you stand in your sister’s shadow, only without her beside you to cast it. You move through conversation with practised ease. Three ladies ask after your sister. One older gentleman mistakenly calls you by her name, and you correct him gently, no sting in your voice. And then you excuse yourself, drifting toward the edge of the terrace where the rose-covered trellis offers a moment of quiet. You are just reaching for a glass of water when a familiar voice drifts behind you.

"Miss Everleigh."

You turn. There he is, the Duke, alone. Not at your sister’s side. Not deep in conversation. Not scanning the crowd for another Lady to dance with. He stands a respectful distance away, one hand loosely clasped behind his back, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Your Grace.” You offer a curtsy, calm as you can manage. “I am surprised to see you without company.”

His lips twitch at the corner. “It seems the pattern of surprises between us continues.”

His eyes study your face, not in a way that lingers, but in a way that makes you feel slightly restless beneath the skin. “Is your sister not attending?”

You shake your head. “She is unwell, Your Grace. Nothing serious, only a passing fatigue.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” His voice is quiet, and smooth as ever, though beneath it there is something unreadable once again, something that does not quite settle.

“I hope you do not feel… obligated to entertain me in her absence, Your Grace.” You add it carefully, watching his face.

“I do not.” The reply comes quicker than you expected, not curt, only honest.

Your brows lift, amused despite yourself. “Then what brings you to my corner of the garden, Your Grace?”

“Curiosity, perhaps.” A small pause, and then, almost like a confession, “You have a talent for appearing where I least expect you.”

You blink, and a small smile finds you. “I assure you, Your Grace, I do not do it on purpose.”

“A pity.” His voice has gone quieter. “It is becoming a habit I rather look forward to.”

You do not have time to answer, because somewhere across the terrace someone is calling your name, Lord Wessex, of course, waving from the far end with that signature grin of his. You turn back to the Duke.

“If you will excuse me, Your Grace.”

He inclines his head. “Of course.”

You curtsy again. He bows. And you walk away, toward the man who wants you, and away from the one who has only just begun to wonder whether he should.

“Was that the Duke I saw you speaking with?” Lord Wessex offers his arm as you return to the centre of the terrace.

“It was, My Lord.” Your fingers brush the embroidered edge of his sleeve as you accept.

“And how was His Grace this fine evening? Did he frown at you with poetic intensity?”

You smile. “He was polite. Curious, perhaps. But there was no frowning.”

He clicks his tongue, mock-disappointed. “How dull. I had hoped for at least a glower.”

You laugh, soft and warm, as he guides you toward a quieter corner of the garden path, where lanterns hang low and glowing between branches of wisteria. You walk together in companionable silence for a moment.

“You always find me easily, My Lord.” You keep your tone light.

“That is because I always look.” There is no hesitation in him at all when he says it, and that is what stills you, just a fraction, the unguarded sincerity of it.

The conversation drifts easily after that, as it always does between you. He asks about your favourite lines from the bookshop. You ask about his childhood summers spent on a windswept estate in Devon. He makes you laugh with an imitation of a distant cousin who once proposed to a woman mid-faint.

It is easy, this thing between you. Not dull, not predictable, but certain, somehow. And when he asks you for a dance under the stars, you say yes without thinking twice. You dance in the soft evening breeze, the music from the terrace drifting down like petals from above, his hand steady at your waist, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You are quiet tonight.” His voice is low at your ear as you turn.

“My apologies, My Lord. I had not realised.”

“Quieter than usual. Not unhappy, I hope?”

“No.” The answer is honest, and easily given. “Just enjoying this moment.”

His smile is small and pleased. “Then I shall consider myself fortunate.”

Somewhere on the terrace, the Duke is dancing with another Lady. He does not fumble, does not charm, does not smile too wide or step too close. He is composed, as always, fulfilling his role and bowing when required and saying the right words at the right times.

But when your laughter drifts once more across the lawn, his eyes, just for a second, turn toward the sound and linger there again.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

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