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“I was about five minutes from climbing out a window,” Dominic muttered.

“Three ladies at once!” Simon exclaimed in mock awe. “Your stamina is wasted on decorum. So—who gets the honor of your next dance? Or will you be doing the gentlemanly thing and allowing all of them to share you?”

“I’d rather dance with a cactus,” Dominic grumbled.

Simon chortled. “That sounds like a yes to me.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “And here I was, thinking my husband was the dramatic one.”

“He is,” Dominic said flatly.

She smirked. “True. But I married him for his other qualities. Very deep , man. Occasionally useful. Always enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiasm is underrated,” Simon said, lifting a finger sagely.

“You know,” Olivia continued, “you could dance with all three and enjoy yourself. Just don’t dance with the same one twice, or she’ll start dreaming about the wedding announcements.”

“Why does everyone assume I’m trying to wed someone?” Dominic muttered.

“Because you’ve got that brooding look,” Simon said, tilting his head dramatically. “It screams tragic backstory . Women find it quite motivating.”

Dominic scowled. “I wasn’t aware I had a look.”

“You do,” Olivia said. “It’s very Byronic. You should consider blinking more.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Dominic said, dry as bone. “You do know you’re married to an idiot?”

Olivia tutted. “Now, now. That’s no way to talk about your friend.”

“Precisely!” Simon said, throwing his hands up. “I never get the thanks I deserve.”

“Because you only act noble when no one’s watching,” Olivia said fondly. “Except me, of course.”

Simon grinned at her. “That’s because you’re the only one whose opinion I care about.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at her mouth.

Dominic watched them for a beat—this odd, strangely well-matched pair—and found himself relaxing more than he had in days. Whatever else they were, Simon and Olivia were real . Not society masks. Not political allies. Just… friends. Irritating ones, but loyal to the core.

Simon turned back to him, cocking an eyebrow. “So. Are you going to tell us what’s got you glowering like someone spat in your champagne, or are we going to keep pretending you’re merely averse to flirtation?”

Dominic hesitated.

Olivia reached over and patted his arm—gently this time. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. But don’t forget, Dominic—we’re your friends. Not just your rescuers.”

“And we’re very good at secrets,” Simon added. “Mostly because no one ever believes we’re serious.”

Dominic let out a quiet breath. “Maybe later.”

“Later it is,” Olivia said, and with an exaggerated little curtsy, added, “Until then, Your Grace, you’re officially under the protection of House Darfield. No ambitious debutante shall pass.”

“Unless they’re particularly pretty,” Simon added.

Olivia elbowed him. “Simon.”

“What? I meant for him. No woman could ever rival your radiant beauty, my darling.”

Olivia arched a brow, clearly amused. “Careful, my lord. Keep saying things like that and we might find an excellent excuse to return to your chambers early.”

Simon leaned in and murmured just loudly enough, “Why wait? There’s a linen cupboard just down the corridor and I do believe it locks from the inside.”

Olivia burst into laughter, scandalized and delighted.

Dominic stopped dead in his tracks. “Good God. I am standing right here.”

Simon gave him a wicked grin. “We noticed. You’re quite tall. Hard to miss.”

“Please keep your marital relations between yourselves,” Dominic muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Olivia patted his arm, still laughing. “You poor, delicate thing. Come along, Your Grace. We’ll try to keep the indecency to a whisper.”

“No promises,” Simon added cheerfully.

Before Dominic could respond, Lord Grisham appeared. He looked more restless than he usually did as he tugged Lady Elizabeth along.

“Oakmere,” Grisham greeted. As usual, his voice was a lethal combination of silk and steel. “I don’t think I’ve seen you dance yet tonight. Certainly, you would give our family the privilege of dancing with my precious Elizabeth?”

It was too late. Dominic could see the Marquess gently pushing his daughter toward him.

To spare the skittish girl from further embarrassment, he offered his hand.

Lady Elizabeth gulped.

“Accept his hand, Elizabeth,” the Marquess ordered in a quiet and firm voice.

“Lady Elizabeth, may I have the honor?” Dominic asked.

“Y-Yes, Your Grace. Of course,” Lady Elizabeth replied, her eyes darting from her father to Dominic.

They moved to the dance floor just as the music began. The quartet, still faithfully serving its time at Grisham Manor, played beautifully. But Dominic could find no enjoyment in it.

The girl trembled in his arms, not from excitement but from sheer nervousness—likely fear of her father. How could any man take pleasure in that?

She was light on her feet, her movements graceful and in perfect rhythm. A fine dancer, to be sure, but he felt nothing. No spark. And that, he knew, could not be manufactured.

Still, he could at least make the effort to converse.

“How do you find social gatherings, my lady?” he asked.

“T-They are f-fine. I do not mingle with the ton much, Your G-Grace. It is a bit new and… and frightening. I understand my d-duties, though.”

Dominic’s stomach clenched at that word.

Duties .

“Are you fond of the countryside?” he asked, wondering how similar—or different—she was to her elder sister.

“Oh. Um, the air is nicer in the country, I s-suppose. I spend my afternoons painting the scenery.”

“That sounds interesting,” he said, half-lying.

He respected her choice of pastime, but he could not push the image of her elder sister on horseback out of his mind.

When the music ended, they exchanged a bow and a curtsy. Both half-stumbled to escape each other.

A match, indeed , Dominic thought wryly.

Now it was his turn to flee. He slipped out of the room and stepped into the night air, letting the cool breeze wash over him.

The moon hung low, casting silver light across the gardens and the still surface of the pond—just as it had on the night of Marianne’s unexpected midnight wander.

There was something about her. Something that kept drawing her to him—or perhaps drawing him to her. As if fate itself was weaving them into the same pattern.

And there she was again, seated on the edge of a fountain, her figure bathed in moonlight. Not her foot this time, but her hand moved slowly through the water, tracing idle shapes on its surface.

She looked lost in thought, distant, like something fragile caught between dreams and waking.

“Your Grace! Again!” she gasped as she took notice of him.

“Indeed, little doe. You know I tend to find good company easily,” he said.

He was not too happy about how glib he sounded, but that was how he talked around her. He liked teasing her until she blushed, as she was doing now.

“I never thought the mighty Duke of Oakmere would need to escape a countryside ball,” she said, her lips curving as she tilted her head in mock surprise.

“I was not escaping, my lady. I merely withdrew. Strategically.”

“Strategically?” she repeated, huffing a laugh.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the space next to her.

To his surprise, she nodded. He sat beside her, and though the silence stretched, it was anything but awkward. On the contrary, it felt oddly welcome. Something seemed to hum between them—subtle yet unmistakable, like the quiet resonance of a string drawn tight between kindred souls.

“Did any of your admirers manage to trap you into a dance?” she asked.

“No. I danced with Lady Elizabeth,” he said.

“Oh.”

There was silence again. Her hand dipped into the water once more.

“How was your dance with Elizabeth?”

“Pleasant.”

“Pleasant?” she repeated, incredulous. “That sounds suspiciously like a word chosen to avoid offense.”

“It was,” he admitted plainly. “I was being polite. She’s your sister.”

“You are impossible.” She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. But then her posture stiffened slightly. “You should not be here,” she added, her voice lower, more serious now. “If someone sees us?—”

“Let them,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Let them think what they wish.”

“I’d rather not be the subject of speculation if it’s all the same to you,” she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. She didn’t move away.

“Is that the only reason?” he asked, leaning slightly closer. “The threat of gossip?”

Marianne drew in a breath. “I came out for air, not for… this.”

“But here we are,” he said softly. “You, always slipping away like mist—and me, always finding where you’ve gone.”

“I don’t mean to run from you,” she admitted, looking away. “Only… when you are near, I forget myself.”

He paused, the weight of her words settling between them. “And is that such a terrible thing?”

“I’m not sure,” she whispered.

There was silence for a beat—an almost unbearable silence. He reached for her hand slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat. She didn’t. Her fingers trembled slightly beneath his.

“You ought not to look at me that way,” she said, very softly.

“I can’t seem to help it, little doe,” he murmured.

Their faces were close now, her breath brushing his jaw. He leaned in carefully, giving her time to turn away. But she didn’t.

And his mouth met hers at last.

The kiss was gentle. Testing. Dominic’s lips touched hers with restrained hunger, reverent and unhurried. Her breath hitched, but she returned the kiss—tentatively, then with a touch more certainty.

His hand rose to cradle her cheek, and the world narrowed to the quiet between them, the hush of the garden, the water lapping softly at the fountain.

It was a kiss born of pent-up tension, and for a moment, even the rules she lived by seemed to fall silent.

The kiss deepened with a slow, aching intensity.

Dominic tilted his head slightly, drawing her closer as his hand moved from her cheek to the back of her neck. His fingers threaded into her hair, loosening the curls carefully pinned into place. Marianne gasped softly against his mouth, and that was all the invitation he needed.

No longer tentative, he pressed his lips more firmly to hers, coaxing a response she hadn’t known she was capable of giving.

The pressure of his mouth, the heat of his body, the way his breath mingled with hers—it ignited something inside her.

Her fingers clutched the lapels of his coat, not to push him away but to anchor herself.

She parted her lips just enough, and his breath caught. The kiss shifted—no longer just a meeting of mouths, but an exchange of longing, of unspoken things that had stirred between them since the very first moment.

His hand slipped down to the curve of her waist, drawing her just a fraction nearer. They were still seated on the edge of the fountain, but it felt as if the garden had vanished.

There was only him and her, and this wild, unwise, undeniable moment.

But then she pulled away. Dominic groaned, a frustrated sound that made her pulse race.

“We can’t. We’ll get caught,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Let them catch us,” he said.

But she was already rising.

She moved quickly, almost stumbling in her haste. Dominic reached for her wrist to stop her, but she pulled away before he could say another word.

She fled, her breath coming in quick gasps, her legs carrying her through the quiet night, the soft earth beneath her feet barely registering as she dashed away from him.

And didn’t dare look back.