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Blanche was not looking forward to this evening at all. She did not know why she had to attend the musicale with her mother. Just because Lady Wicksford was best friends with Lady Jane Mcgeary, the baron's wife, did not mean she should be forced to go with her.

But Lady Wicksford would not let Blanche get away with it, so she had dressed accordingly in preparation for the evening ahead.

She wore a gown of sage-green satin, its high neckline lending an air of demure sophistication.

The fitted bodice and matching skirt fell in graceful lines, while long lace sleeves veiled her arms with modest refinement.

The gown’s full skirt fanned elegantly about her feet, the rich fabric catching the candlelight with every movement.

But even with her hair tied up into a complicated-looking chignon, Blanche did not feel like she looked fancy enough. The weight of her mother's expectations hung in the air, and Isabella's exasperated glare halted her in the doorway, reminding her that she would never be enough .

"Blanche," Lady Wicksford hissed, her voice a sharp under tone of urgency. "This evening, you must be on your very best behaviour. The guest list includes highly eligible gentlemen, and I will not have you tarnishing our standing with your scholarly daydreams."

"I know, Mother. I shall behave," Blanche half-heartedly agreed.

"I am quite serious, Blanche. You are perilously close to spinsterhood," Isabella continued, her tone a stern reminder.

"Indulging in your academic fancies will do nothing to secure you a suitable match.

Your task this evening is to charm, to exhibit grace, wit, and the modest femininity expected of a lady.

If you insist on prattling about mouldering artefacts and dead languages in their presence, you will all but ensure your ruin. "

The warning was delivered sharply, each word a command etched in the air.

Blanche felt the weight of societal expectations press upon her, the confines of propriety closing in.

As she nodded obediently, the vision of scholarly daydreams and the intellectual pursuits that defined her seemed to recede into the background.

With one last admonishing look, Lady Wicksford allowed Blanche to proceed.

As Blanche descended the grand staircase of her family's town house, she felt the weight of her mother's expectations settle upon her shoulders like an oppressive mantle.

Isabella's exasperated instructions echoed in her mind, and Blanche bit her tongue to suppress any protest that threatened to escape.

She knew too well that challenging her mother's directives would only invite a blistering lecture on the duties of a genteel young lady and her supposed failure to attract a proposal during her first Season.

That was not a conversation that she wished to have again.

Once outside the home and seated inside the carriage, Blanche allowed herself a moment of silent rebellion, her gaze fixed on the passing cityscape.

The lively discussions of scholars and thinkers, happening just beyond the polite earshot of a genteel lady, taunted her like distant music, a melody of intellectual pursuits that remained elusive.

But Blanche knew that just for one night, she could not think about any of it. Even if she did not desire to attract a gentleman at the musicale, she would still have to behave with grace so that her mother did not see through her.

Then maybe they could go just one day without an argument.

The entrance to the McGearys' musicale was a spectacle of opulence, and as Blanche and her mother swept into the lavish surroundings, she could not help but feel the weight of societal expectations pressing upon her.

The elegantly adorned guests and the strains of a melodic piano created an atmosphere of refinement that seemed both captivating and stifling.

As Blanche's gaze swept across the room, it caught on an imposing figure near the pianoforte — the Duke of Brooksdale. His broad shoulders were emphasised by a fine black velvet waistcoat that accentuated the athleticism of his frame. In that moment, time seemed to slow as their eyes briefly met.

His piercing green gaze held a depth that made Blanche's breath catch in her throat. A flutter pulsated in her chest, a reaction she berated herself for. It was a visceral response to a stranger, one who likely regarded her as just another simpering society miss.

A sensation she became more convinced of as he rapidly dragged his eyes away from hers.

The Duke of Brooksdale, though clad in the finest of evening attire, seemed a stark contrast to the other gentlemen in attendance.

His brooding demeanour and the piercing green eyes she briefly met hinted at a depth that set him apart.

A woman Blanche could only assume was his mother exuded the refined elegance befitting her station, yet an air of restraint clung to him.

Lord and Lady McGeary, in their attempts to fawn over the distinguished guests, appeared blissfully unaware of Philip's lack of enthusiasm. A well-practised smile graced his lips, but the lines of his face betrayed a certain detachment.

Blanche could not help but wonder at the incongruity between the societal expectations of the evening and Philip's apparent disinterest. As the other guests whispered their speculations and exchanged glances, she observed the Duke of Brooksdale navigating the social intricacies with a palpable sense of reservation—one that she understood all too well.

A subtle tension lingered in the air, and Blanche found herself drawn to this enigmatic figure in the midst of the elegant gathering. The contrast between the polished facade of societal interactions and Philip's subdued countenance only fueled her curiosity.

Eventually averting her eyes, Blanche focused on the task at hand — upholding her mother's expectations and making a favourable impression on the eligible gentlemen in attendance.

At least, that was how she wanted it to seem.

The delicate dance of propriety demanded her attention, and she could not afford to be distracted by the brooding Duke.

Lady Wicksford guided her through the social intricacies, introducing her daughter to notable figures while keeping a watchful eye on her manners.

Blanche forced a polite smile, her mind preoccupied with the fleeting eye contact with the gentleman who lingered near the pianoforte.

The Duke of Brooksdale remained in her thoughts, his enigmatic presence casting a shadow over the genteel facade of the evening.

He was unnerving, in a way that brought Blanche to the precise of anxiety.

How on earth am I to survive the night? She thought .

Seated alongside her mother, Blanche took in the opulent surroundings of the McGearys' musicale.

The lavish setting, resplendent with the strains of a piano and the melodic notes of accomplished musicians, enveloped the guests in an atmosphere of refined sophistication.

She was starting to feel a little excited, and grateful that she came along tonight.

Meeting gentlemen might not have been a lot of fun, but the show was sure to be.

Penelope and her parents occupied nearby seats, which meant Blanche was entertained by her friend's lively critiques and spirited insights as the show started.

"Well, I must say, the opening pianist displayed a delightful finesse, but I could not help but yearn for a touch more passion in their execution. Music is not merely a series of notes; it is an emotional journey, and tonight's voyage started on a rather reserved shore."

The words were a welcome distraction. However, try as she might to immerse herself in the music, Blanche's gaze frequently wandered to the side, where the Duke of Brooksdale sat with his mother.

She could not seem to help herself. The lingering fascination with the brooding Duke tugged at her thoughts, a magnetic pull that transcended the allure of the musical compositions.

How she longed to engage with him in conversations about his antiquities collection — the artefacts, the stories behind them, the shared passion for the treasures of the past. The prospect of delving into intellectual discussions with a kindred spirit ignited a spark of yearning within her.

Yet, the reality of her societal constraints weighed heavily.

A young lady daring to speak openly about artefacts in the company of gentlemen—and especially of a duke—would all but invite her mother's swift and painful censure.

The rigid dictates of grace, charm, and modest femininity loomed ever large, a stifling force against her quiet yearning for true companionship—one built upon intellect and shared passions, rather than mere pleasantries and propriety.

Eventually, Blanche started to notice that her mother's eyes seemed to be continually drawn in the direction of the Duke also. Lady Wicksford ‘s attention, usually reserved for matters of societal standing and advantageous matches, was fixated on the Duke of Brooksdale with an unusual fervour.

Blanche stole glances at her mother, trying to discern the source of such fascination. It was an anomaly for Mother, who typically displayed a disdain for scholarly gentlemen and their pursuits. The Duke, brooding and enigmatic, seemed an unlikely object of her mother's interest, despite his title.

Yet she continued to dart gazes his way, with an intense interest in him.