The air in the ballroom was thick with the scent of lilies and the murmur of polite society, a stifling velvet trap that Patrick navigated with his usual practiced detachment. He stood near a less frequented drinks table, a half-empty glass of amber liquid in his hand, observing the glittering tableau. His eyes, those piercing grey-blue pools, scanned the room with a familiar cynicism, lingering on the forced smiles and calculating gazes.

Then, she appeared at the edge of his periphery, drawing his gaze almost against his will. She moved with an unburdened grace that spoke of independence, not aristocratic languor. He knew her, of course. Not personally, but by reputation —the formidable daughter of a distant Count, untouched by the usual societal pressures, having famously —and rather audaciously— dismissed a string of eligible, if insipid, suitors.