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“We have a ball to attend in a week,” he announced without preamble.

Yvette blinked, her surprise evident. “A ball?”

“Aye.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment, she seemed lost for words. “I—I’ll do my best to prepare, but a week is hardly enough time. I’ve been away from London for so long…”

Killian studied her, sensing her unease. He knew how overwhelming the transition back to London society must be for her, especially after her time in the nunnery. Still, he admired her resolve.

“Ye’ll manage,” he said simply.

Yvette pressed her lips together, then nodded. “I suppose I have no choice.”

“No,” Killian agreed, a trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Ye don’t.”

As she turned to leave, he caught her hand, his grip firm but not unkind. Yvette glanced back at him, her brows raised in question.

“Ye’ll do fine,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unexpected note of reassurance.

Yvette’s expression softened, and she gave him a small, grateful smile before slipping out of the room.

Killian watched her go, his thoughts tangled. The days ahead would be challenging for both of them, but he couldn’t deny a certain anticipation at the thought of seeing his wife step into her role as duchess in the heart of London society.

One week was indeed not enough time to prepare for a ball, and Yvette felt the rush from the moment the invitation was opened. Fiona worked tirelessly alongside her, both pulling strings and paying exorbitant amounts to secure dresses in time. Every seamstress they spoke to groaned at the deadline, but a little extra coin was always persuasive.

Yvette found herself more exhausted than she had anticipated. She’d hoped for more time—not just for her gown, but to steel herself mentally. Life in London was a whirlwind, a stark contrast to the slow serenity of Braemore.

In London, there was no waiting for anyone.

The night of the ball arrived with dizzying speed.

As they stepped into the grand ballroom, Killian, Yvette, and Fiona were met by a wall of whispers. Every flicker of a fan, every glance cast in their direction, carried a murmur.

“Is that the new duchess?”

“Isn’t that Lady Yvette Holby?”

“So it is true that those two got married?”

“I am amazed that half-breed can show herself in society.”

“Such a scandalous family… but look at him, always so stoic.”

Killian’s hand tightened around Yvette’s arm as they descended the staircase. She felt the tension radiating from him, but he maintained his usual composed facade. Beside her, Fiona kept her chin high, though Yvette caught the briefest flicker of discomfort in her eyes.

“Come,” Killian said through clenched teeth. “Let us greet the hosts.”

They approached the Viscount and Viscountess Montrose, an elegant pair with years of experience navigating London’s social circles.

The viscountess, a tall, thin woman with silver streaks in her hair offered a polite smile as her husband—a portly man with a ruddy complexion—stepped forward.

“Your Grace,” he said to Killian with a bow. “And the duchess, I presume. Welcome to our home. A pleasure to have you both.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Yvette replied graciously.

The Viscountess’s gaze lingered on Yvette. “Your Grace, I hope London sees more of you.” Her tone was pleasant, but there was an undercurrent of something else—pity, perhaps.

Yvette offered a tight smile. “Perhaps.”