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D aphne knew something was amiss.

Lord Windham had never intrigued her, never made her pulse race with a single glance.

The man at last night’s ball was so different that it almost felt as if he was someone else entirely.

With slightly longer, more tousled hair.

With more curiosity in the deep moss green of his eyes.

With a rakish scar that somehow made him more appealing rather than less.

How had she never seen that scar before?

“Did you notice anything strange about Lord Windham last evening?” Daphne asked as she stood with her sister Ivy near the unlit fireplace in Lord and Lady Harrington’s drawing room.

Guests had gathered to make conversation as they awaited the sound of the dinner gong. Lady Harrington’s dinner parties were grand and well-attended. Though a dozen had already arrived, Daphne suspected more were expected.

“You mean aside from his reappearance after two weeks’ absence?”

“Yes, aside from that.”

Ivy turned one of her inquisitive gazes Daphne’s way. “I saw you speaking to him a while. Did you not ask where he’d been?”

“Recuperating from a cold, or so he said.”

“Goodness.” Ivy arched a brow. “I do believe I’m rubbing off on you.” She beamed proudly at that. “You sound as dubious of gentlemen as I usually do.”

“Not all gentlemen,” Daphne clarified. “Only some gentlemen. And at the moment, just one.”

“What makes you doubt his claim?” Ivy asked.

Daphne licked her lips and considered her reply. She had no logical reason to be musing about the man. Selina had seemed pleased by his return. Whatever misgivings Daphne harbored, her friend clearly had none.

Selina and Windham had danced and smiled with one another as if no time had passed at all. They’d seemed so amiable with each other that Daphne had half expected a note to arrive this morning. If he’d asked for her hand, Selina would be breathless to send news of their engagement.

And Daphne would be happy for them.

Of course she would.

And yet here she was still thinking of the earl. Something in her refused to stop pondering the changes in him—and the way he’d looked at her.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Ivy said, ever attuned to Daphne’s mood.

“I was simply considering whether it’s possible for a man to return from a head cold more handsome than before.”

Ivy gave her a look. “Oh, dear.”

Daphne swallowed hard and inwardly chided herself for letting that truth slip out. “He seemed different,” she said at last.

“Two weeks abed with a fever would change anyone,” Ivy said. “But you mean that you noticed him as you hadn’t before.” Her tone held an edge of mischief.

Daphne shot her a look. “I mean nothing.”

“And yet you say it in a way that means quite a lot.” Ivy smirked. “You noticed him.” She shrugged. “It is not unheard of that a young lady should take note of a gentleman.”

“Ivy, please. This isn’t a case for one of your sleuth-like deductions.”

“Yet you’ve already said something incriminating.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, Daphne. Not every spark becomes a fire.”

“I said he looked different, not appealing,” Daphne said a little too indignantly.

“You said both.”

Daphne gave her a warning glance, but Ivy only laughed softly, enjoying herself far too much. Then, with a pat to Daphne’s arm, she sobered a little.

“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not a crime to notice a man. Even one with…complicated attachments.”

“It feels as if it should be.”

“It’s not,” Ivy said gently. “Just don’t go falling in love with him.”

Daphne stiffened. “Of course I won’t. Do you not think I’ve learned my lesson after Moreland?”

But even as she said it, her pulse quickened.

A murmur swept through the drawing room, as if someone had let in a breeze. Daphne didn’t have to turn to know who had just walked in. She felt it in the way the room altered—the shift of attention and tilt of voices. Someone spoke his name in greeting.

Windham .

She turned despite herself.

There he was—tall and composed in his evening clothes, the line of his shoulders so much broader than she remembered. He greeted Lady Harrington, his manner polished but not as smiling as he used to be, almost too practiced. Then his gaze swept the room, as if searching for someone.

Until it landed on her.

Daphne felt it again as she had last night—an inexplicable jolt. As if some thread inside her had snapped taut.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

“There it is,” Ivy murmured at her elbow. “That very not-a-crime sort of noticing.”

Daphne inhaled sharply, determined not to rise to the bait. “He looked over. That’s hardly?—”

“And he’s still doing so.”

Daphne exhaled and turned her back to the room, pretending sudden interest in the arrangement of flowers on nearby table. “He’s not quite as I thought he was.”

“Not the affable suitor of your friend, you mean?”

“I mean,” she said quietly, “he looked at me strangely last night, almost as if he didn’t know me. And then?—”

“Then?” Ivy’s voice was inquisitive now, as if seeking clues.

Daphne shook her head. “Never mind.”

Before Ivy could press her, a familiar voice cut through the nearby conversation.

“Miss Bridewell.”

She turned. He stood a polite distance away, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Lord Windham,” she replied, voice calm, even while her insides were rioting.

He bowed, and there was something very precise in it, something almost careful.

“Might I trouble you for a moment’s conversation?”

Daphne blinked. Beside her, Ivy had suddenly become fascinated with a nearby portrait.

“Of course,” Daphne said.

He offered his arm, and she hesitated half a beat before taking it. His sleeve was warm, his muscles hard beneath her fingers.

They moved toward the far edge of the room, near a tall window draped in green damask. The sound of the other guests blurred behind them.

“I was hoping to see you again this evening,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, but his expression remained unreadable.

“Did you? We didn’t exactly get on well last night,” she replied.

His mouth curved. “Yes, and that was entirely my fault. I was…not quite myself. Allow me to apologize if I was awkward or abrupt.”

“Apologies aren’t necessary,” she said. “You’ve never been unkind to me.”

He studied her a moment. “And yet I fear I left you unsettled.”

Daphne felt her throat tighten. That jolt came again, but more subtle this time. “You looked at me…strangely. As though you’d never seen me before,” she said under her breath.

“Perhaps I hadn’t.”

Her eyes flicked to his. Before either of them could say more, the dinner gong sounded from the corridor.

He offered his arm again. “Shall we?”

Daphne hesitated. Then she laid her hand over his arm once more and allowed him to lead her to the dining room.

Cassian had not meant to look at her so often.

But his gaze kept returning to where Miss Daphne Bridewell sat across the table, laughing lightly at something a too-friendly lordling had said.

It was maddening.

She wasn’t even speaking to Cassian, let alone paying him any mind, and yet her presence bent his attention toward her like the magnet of a compass needle draws towards north.

He sipped his wine and forced himself to glance away, to offer a cordial remark to the dowager countess on his right. She complained of card games and her dreadful luck. Nodding at the appropriate moment, he murmured something about fortune always favoring the undeserving.

Then Daphne laughed again.

Cassian stole another glance.

A lock of her hair had slipped free of its pins, and the soft curl brushed her cheek. The strand caught the light like it meant to blind him. Like the shimmer of sunlight on still water. He told himself it was just the gaslights that made her seem so bright.

But he couldn’t stop looking.

She was…vivid. So lovely and alive in a room full of people posturing and gossiping. And utterly unaware of the way her smile made him forget what he was here for.

Cassian felt a sting of guilt and gulped down more wine. The lie he was perpetrating on her, on everyone, bit at his conscience.

Another man leaned too close to Miss Bridewell during the fish course. Cassian's jaw tightened. She tilted her head, cool and polite, not charmed. Not the way she’d looked at him earlier.

That shouldn’t matter so much, but it did.

Her gaze flicked up then, as if she’d felt his attention. Their eyes met, but only for a second.

Cassian forced his mouth into a mild expression and looked away, then reached for his glass again. He was not here to be distracted. He had a part to play. A duty to his brother to uphold. And then, somewhere between the fourth course and dessert, a thought began to take shape in his mind.

What if he asked her for help?

Daphne Bridewell was Lady Selina’s dearest friend. If anyone could assist him to navigate a courtship with the lady, it would be her.

And then he’d have a reason to speak to her. He’d have reason to listen to her laugh. To hear her thoughts. To watch the way her fingers curled around a napkin as she listened to dull men with remarkable patience.

Yes, he could ask her to advise him on how best to woo Selina.

He glanced at her again. This time, she arched a brow as she met his gaze. Anticipation coiled low in his gut, but he willed himself to look away.

As the final plates were cleared and Lord Harrington rose from his seat, guests began to disperse. Gentlemen were invited to the billiards room or a nearby salon for cards. Others made murmured plans to stroll the garden paths in the balmy air.

Cassian didn’t head to billiards or cards. He went in search of one petite blonde.