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T he drawing room of Exitor shimmered with candlelight, each polished surface reflecting the golden glow like scattered stars. The interplay of light and shadow cast a dreamlike haze over the space, both elegant and slightly disorienting.

Lilian paused at the threshold, resisting the instinct to smooth the already pristine fabric of her gown, a nervous habit she had yet to break. Though she had attended countless gatherings in London, this felt different. She had been out of society for far too long.

Everyone in the room played their part in the carefully orchestrated affair—except her.

“There you are!”

Emiline appeared at her side, radiant in green silk, her glass of sherry already half-emptied. She flashed a bright smile, oblivious to Lilian’s hesitance. “I was thinking you’d lost your way in this labyrinth of a house.”

“I nearly did,” Lilian admitted, grateful for the distraction.

The maid had offered to escort her, but in a fit of stubbornness, she had insisted she could find the drawing room on her own.

After three wrong turns, a near collision with a statue, and an awkward encounter with a footman, she finally arrived at her destination.

Emiline laughed, the sound bright against the subdued hum of conversation. “Come, let me introduce you to everyone. Though I suspect you know half the room already from London.”

Lilian followed Emiline’s gaze, scanning the room.

Indeed, familiar faces dotted the gathering—a baronet’s daughter who had debuted the same year as Lilian stood near the fireplace, her gown too fashionable for a country retreat.

A viscount and his wife exchanged low-voiced remarks, their assessing glances suggesting their interest lay more in the guest list than in polite conversation.

Near the pianoforte, a small group of young gentlemen animatedly recounted hunting tales, gesturing in exaggerated detail to demonstrate the size of their imagined prey.

“The duke has quite the diverse guest list,” Emiline mused, watching the room with interest. “Though I’m told this is the first house party he’s hosted in years. No wonder everyone seems so… intent on making an impression.”

Lilian’s fingers tightened slightly around the folds of her gown. “Is he not joining us?” she asked, striving for a tone of mild curiosity rather than keen anticipation.

“Fashionably late to his own gathering, I imagine,” Emiline replied with a wink. “Come, let’s get you a drink. Leonard has already found the best brandy and staked his claim.”

They moved through the room, Emiline’s confident strides parting the crowd with practiced ease. Lilian followed, acutely aware of the glances that trailed her movements. Some polite, some merely curious, and at least one—Lady Overton, a notorious arbiter of gossip—bordering on calculating.

A gentleman standing near the hearth lifted his glass of wine in silent acknowledgment. Lilian blinked in surprise, only belatedly recognizing him as a man she had danced with twice her first season—a minor son of a marquess whose name still escaped her.

“Lady Lilian,” someone called as they neared the refreshment table. “I had not expected to see you here.”

She turned to find Sebastian Harcourt, the Earl of Alton, regarding her with his usual air of quiet dignity.

“Lord Alton,” she greeted, a genuine warmth in her voice. Of all the noblemen she had met in London, he had been one of the few who never postured or preened.

“I might say the same,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you at a house party, given your well-known preference for… quieter pursuits.”

Lilian arched a brow. “And yet here you are.”

“My wife insisted,” he admitted, his expression softening at the mention of Lady Juliana. “She was most determined that we accept the invitation. Ah, here she is now.”

A slender woman with striking blue eyes approached, her smile bright.

“Darling,” Lord Alton said, “allow me to introduce Lady Lilian Kingston.”

“Lady Lilian,” she said warmly, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Lilian curtsied. “I am here with Lord and Lady Morton—they were kind enough to include me in their party.”

“The more the merrier,” Lady Alton replied, though her gaze held a glint of something more thoughtful than mere social pleasure. “My brother will be pleased to see fresh faces at his table. He grows weary of the same London gossip recycled season after season.”

Lilian’s breath caught. “Your brother?”

“The duke,” Lady Alton clarified smoothly, amusement flickering in her gaze. “I’m Juliana Harcourt. My brother and I may no longer share a surname, but we do share a certain… wariness of society’s more tedious customs.”

Lilian felt absurdly unprepared. She had known, of course, that the duke had a sister, but she had never met the lady.

“I had no idea,” she murmured.

Juliana smiled. “I am pleased we rectified that and believe we shall be great friends.”

At that moment, a bell sounded, a brief series of low, reverberating chimes that hushed the murmured conversations. Around the room, guests straightened their postures, glasses were set aside, and the collective anticipation heightened.

Lilian’s pulse quickened.

Would the duke finally make his appearance?

For several breathless moments, the room held its collective inhale. And then—

The double doors swung open, their well-oiled hinges barely making a sound.

And Griffith Wyndham, Duke of Exitor, entered.

Lilian’s breath caught, her pulse faltering as awareness settled over her—quiet, inescapable.

He was taller than expected, his broad shoulders perfectly cut by the precision of his evening attire—black and unembellished, save for a single signet ring that caught the candlelight as he moved.

But it was his face that held the room captive.

Lilian had imagined him severe, but this was something else entirely. Sharp cheekbones cast shadows across his features, his jaw strong and uncompromising. His hair, a shade of deep brown, was slightly longer than fashion dictated, one errant lock defying whatever pomade had attempted to tame it.

Yet it was his eyes that unsettled her the most—piercing and unyielding, as if they could strip away pretense and see the truth beneath.

A shade of striking blue, not soft like the summer sky, but the blue of deep waters—cold, intense, and unreadable.

Those piercing eyes swept the room, and for a single heartbeat, they met hers. A jolt of awareness pulsed through her, sharp and unexpected, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her sherry glass, a desperate anchor against the sudden rush of sensation.

A moment. A flicker. A question, perhaps.

And then, just as swiftly, his gaze moved on, as if the moment had never been.

But Lilian knew better.

Something unspoken lingered between them—a charge in the air, a recognition neither of them had invited yet could not deny.

And for the first time that evening, she wondered if coming to Exitor had been a terrible mistake.

Or the most important decision of her life.

“I hear the south gardens are particularly fine this time of year,” remarked the gentleman to Lilian’s left, his voice pleasant but unremarkable.

Lilian turned toward him with a polite smile. Viscount Aldwick, if she recalled correctly. His demeanor was amiable enough, yet Lilian struggled to hold focus.

Her attention kept drifting, like an unmoored boat, back to the opposite side of the room.

The duke was engaged in conversation with Lord Alton, yet even from across the room, Lilian could see the tension in his posture—the precise, rigid way he held himself.

His responses were brief, measured, calculated to waste neither breath nor sentiment.

There was an economy to his movements, as if each word and gesture cost him something valuable—something he refused to spend freely.

What a contrast he was to the other men in the room.

“Lady Lilian?” The viscount’s voice reeled her back, forcing her to refocus.

She blinked, realizing she had not heard the question. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked if you might care to walk in the gardens tomorrow? Weather permitting, of course.”

“Oh,” she hesitated. “That is very kind, but I have already promised Lady Alton I would accompany her in the morning.”

The viscount’s expression flickered with disappointment, though he recovered quickly, offering a smooth nod. “Of course. Lady Alton is an excellent guide—particularly knowledgeable about the botanical specimens, I believe.”

“So I understand,” Lilian replied, seizing on the neutral topic with relief. “I look forward to learning from her expertise.”

They drifted into safe conversation—the journey from London, upcoming social engagements, the mild weather that had made travel pleasant. Lilian participated with nods and polite remarks, relying on the social graces instilled in her.

But even as she played her part, her mind kept straying.

She studied the other gentlemen in the room, noting how they occupied space with ease, their gestures broad, their laughter freely given.

They moved with the ease of men who had never questioned their place in the world, their confidence born of privilege rather than earned through hardship.

They dominated their conversations, spoke with certainty, as though the world existed solely to accommodate their opinions.

The duke was different. He stood apart, his presence no less commanding, yet marked by a quiet restraint that intrigued her far more than boisterous displays ever could.

He did not demand attention; the duke commanded it by virtue of his stillness.

He spoke when addressed, but rarely initiated conversation.

His words, when given, were thoughtful yet sparse, his expressions controlled to near perfection.

Lilian could not decide if this restraint was born of disinterest, or if it was simply his way—an armor carefully cultivated over years of expectation and responsibility.