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Edward Leland is dancing in the gilded ballroom of a hotel. It is a random event in the social calendar, held because it is always held, but it is attended by the kind of politicians, businessmen, and low-ranking royalty that it pays to share space with. The chandeliers above are bright and glittery, and the air is filled with music and the tinkle of crystal glasses. Around him, a sea of black suits and expensive gowns.

One, two, three.

Or at least that’s the idea. Except that the woman he is dancing with—a rather plain woman named Eleanor—cannot dance. She keeps misplacing her feet, and he isn’t sure whether that’s from a lack of training, too much champagne, or a combination of both. She has been displaying an interest in him that, at least right now, is not reciprocated, but when she asked to dance he found himself unable to say no.

One, two—

“Ow,” Eleanor says.

He has trodden on her toe. They pause for a moment, then she pats him reassuringly on the arm, as though it is he who made the mistake. Afew seconds later, they resume, falling back into synch with the men and women dancing more effortlessly around them.

“Are you okay?” she says.

“Of course.”

“You seem distracted.”

“Not at all.”

Heisdistracted though. As they dance—theone,two,threein his head now also a silent, teeth-gritted countdown to Eleanor’s next misstep—he is looking around the room and scanning the crowd.

Searching for the other reason he is here tonight.

Charlotte Mary Cooper.

The first time Leland had seen her was at a black-tie dinner. Charlotte had been in her early twenties at the time. She had arrived wearing an elegant red dress in which she seemed slightly ill at ease, as though she had not yet grown fully into her skin. But there had also been a confidence that belied her years and lack of social polish, and it was that, along with the more obvious fact of her beauty, that had quietly bewitched every man at the table that night. Leland had not spoken to her, but he had been unable to take his eyes off her. And as he had stared at her, he had felt something click into place inside him.

Charlotte Mary Cooper didn’t know it yet, but she belonged to him.

In the weeks that followed, Leland had courted her patiently and casually. There was no need to hurry. Brief interactions; occasional conversations. When something was inevitable, such approaches were more than sufficient. Even so, Leland had fallen more deeply in love with her each time they met, and although he registered her apparent indifference—the way she might be looking over his shoulder when he spoke; the slight disdain in her voice when she replied—it was of no importance to him. What was meant to be was meant to be. Charlotte Mary Cooper was meant to be his, and so she would be.

As God has written.

And now he sees her.

Charlotte is on the far side of the room, not dancing but standing by one of the buffet tables, a glass of champagne pressed to her chest. By chance, she is wearing the same red dress as the first time he saw her, and she glows so brightly that it seems impossible it took him so long to spot her.

She throws her head back in laughter at something someone has said—

One, two, three.

—and then she is away to one side of him, out of sight now.

He tenses slightly. She has never responded tohimlike that.

Who is she talking to?

One, two, three.

He finds himself resenting Eleanor’s hands on him now, not just because she is not Charlotte, but because it feels as though she is leading him away—holding him back—and he has to resist the urge to turn his head and stare across the room.

One, two, three.

And then there Charlotte is again.

She is still laughing. Beside her is a handsome, smartly dressed man, who is leaning in closer to her than is appropriate, smiling at the reception his remark has received. Leland’s gaze moves to the man’s face—and then he freezes.

Because even after all these years, he recognizes his brother.