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T he winds off Lake Winnamere carried the scent of summer and damp earth, rustling through the towering oaks that framed Ashworth Manor like silent sentinels.

Under the watchful gaze of the full moon, the grand estate glittered with the promise of revelry.

Lanterns lined the gravel drive, casting golden light upon the carriages rolling up to the ivy-draped entrance.

Inside, the masquerade ball was in full swing.

The grand ballroom, with its high vaulted ceiling painted in celestial frescoes, shimmered with candlelight.

Chandeliers blazed overhead, their crystal teardrops reflecting the swirl of satin and silk below.

The scent of beeswax and roses hung thick in the air, mingling with the delicate strains of a waltz played by a ten-piece orchestra on the gilded dais.

Masked figures glided across the marble floor, whispering behind feathered fans and jeweled masks, their identities hidden beneath intricate disguises of lace and velvet.

The game of mystery and intrigue had begun—the thrill of the night not just in the dancing but in the tantalizing uncertainty of whom one might find beneath the mask.

Lady Eleanor Ashford stood at the top of the grand staircase and inhaled deeply, letting the anticipation of the evening settle over her.

Tonight, she was not the dutiful daughter of Viscount Ashford. Tonight, she was not the young lady burdened by expectations. Tonight, she was simply a woman in a midnight-blue gown, her identity veiled by an intricate mask of sapphire lace.

She descended the stairs slowly, savoring the hush of silk against her skin, the way the candlelight caught on the delicate embroidery at her bodice. The anonymity was intoxicating. For one evening, she was free.

As she reached the final step, a passing figure—clad in a jet-black suit with an ebony mask—brushed past her, his presence sending an unexpected shiver down her spine.

She turned sharply, her breath catching as she glimpsed his profile. Something about him was familiar. Too familiar.

Before she could dwell on the thought, he disappeared into the crowd.

Eleanor exhaled, shaking her head. She was imagining things. It had been years—five, to be precise—since she had last seen him . And surely, if Graham Sinclair had returned from the Continent, her brother would have told her.

Wouldn’t he?

A gentleman approached, bowing politely and extending a gloved hand. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

Eleanor forced a smile and placed her hand in his. She was swept into the sea of dancers. Yet, as she moved through the dance, her thoughts were elsewhere.

On the man in black… and her suspicions.

And the whisper of a past that refused to stay buried.

The music swelled, violins and cellos weaving a spell of elegance and mystery. Eleanor let her steps carry her through the gilded ballroom. Although she should be paying attention to her dance partner, she searched through the crowd for the man in the ebony mask.

It couldn’t be Graham. It shouldn’t be Graham.

And yet, something in the way he moved, the sharp cut of his jaw beneath the flickering candlelight, the effortless grace in his posture—it all whispered of familiarity, of a past she had tried to forget.

Her partner twirled her expertly, murmuring pleasantries she barely registered. Then, just as the final notes of the dance trembled through the air, she felt it again.

A gaze.

Intense. Unrelenting. Watching her.

Eleanor turned, her breath catching in her throat.

There, just beyond the shifting bodies of masked revelers, he stood.

The man in black.

Tall, broad-shouldered, his posture effortlessly commanding, his mask of dark filigree catching in the candlelight.

He was leaning against one of the marble columns near the open doors that led to the balcony overlooking the lake.

His gloved fingers idly held the edge of a crystal glass filled with amber liquid, but he wasn’t drinking.

He was looking at her.

The moment stretched, thick with something unspoken.

Eleanor’s pulse quickened. The warmth of the ballroom suddenly felt suffocating. Her feet moved before she could think better of it.

She wove through the guests, ignoring the chatter and laughter around her, the swirl of gowns and the rustle of expensive silks.

With every step, her certainty solidified.

Was it really him? If so, five years had changed him.

Gone was the reckless young man who had teased her mercilessly as her brother’s best friend.

The boy who had once stolen a rose from the Ashford gardens and tucked it behind her ear, only to leave the very next day without a word.

This man— if he was Graham—was different.

His shoulders were broader, his presence heavier, the sharp angles of his face now lined with a maturity that made her breath catch in ways she did not want to acknowledge. He looked like a man who had seen the world, and yet he stood before her as if she were the only thing he wished to see.

Eleanor drew in a breath, steeling herself.

She stopped before him, her mask shielding her expression, though her voice betrayed the unsteadiness of the emotions rising within her.

“Do I know you, sir?”

He tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his lips. “Do you?”

The sound of his voice—low, smooth, rich with something unreadable—was a devastating blow to whatever resolve she had left.

Eleanor swallowed. “I believe we have met before.”

He studied her for a moment, his gaze unreadable behind the mask, before stepping closer. The space between them shrank, leaving only the scent of sandalwood and brandy in his wake.

“And if I said I remembered you,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper, “would you believe me?”

Eleanor’s heart thundered.

Oh, she was in trouble.

“Forgive my forwardness,” a low voice murmured, “but I believe this waltz is ours.”

Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat. Something inside her stirred to life.

She hesitated for only a moment before placing her gloved hand in his outstretched palm. “And what makes you so certain of that?” she asked, allowing him to lead her onto the floor.

The waltz began, and as they moved in perfect synchrony, Eleanor’s heart pounded. “You dance well,” she murmured, searching his features beneath the mask.

“As do you,” he replied, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile. “Though I should not be surprised.”

Her pulse leapt. “Should not be surprised? Why would you say that?”

His fingers tightened ever so slightly at her waist, sending a shiver through her. “Tell me, Eleanor,” he said, and her name on his lips sent a jolt through her body. “Have I changed so much that you do not recognize me?”

Time stopped. The world, the music, the other dancers—they all faded into nothingness as she gazed into the familiar storm-gray eyes behind the mask.

“Graham,” she whispered as her heart sang with gladness.

Graham Sinclair had been her brother’s best friend and, at one time, her dearest companion—perhaps something more, had time and circumstance allowed.

But why was he here? And why did he look at her as though he had been waiting just as long as she had?

“I’m the Duke of Covington now.” His smile widened.

Her heart flipped excitedly. “Oh, forgive me, Your Grace. I shall not make that mistake again.”

The music swelled once more, the space between them an electrified thread of longing and unanswered questions. But before she could speak again, before she could demand why he had stayed away for so long, the waltz ended.

His hand lingered at her waist before he reluctantly released her. “Meet me on the terrace,” he murmured. “We have so much to catch up on.”

Eleanor could only nod, her heart caught in the tangle of forgotten dreams and forbidden desire. As Graham disappeared into the crowd, she realized one thing with certainty.

Tonight was only the beginning.