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‘You were by the pond?’ Viola’s crisp tone turned suspicious. ‘But Ava was by the pond.’

And she has an old name.

A very old name. Almost as old as your own.

Elliot stumbled as Viola pulled him to face her. ‘Elliot, no. You didn’t.’

‘ She asked me ,’ he shot back.

This man, this Mr Webb… Elliot couldn’t figure him out.

He might be able to love Ava and look after her, or he might not care for her at all.

He might have his own quiet way, or he might demand obedience and contrition and force her spirit to bend to his rules.

What if he hunted? Had anyone thought to ask about that ?

It was such a small thing, and so common amongst the old money, but if her days were peppered with the sound of shots, it would break her.

You are waiting on the paperwork to be finalised…

Yes. The formalities are a little easier, given that she has no family…

‘How dare you. What about us?’

All eyes snapped to Elliot as he spat his words into the hall.

Mr Webb blinked, then straightened his coat-tails. ‘My apologies. I know she has spent some time here, and she’ll still be able to visit.’ His tone was all practised politeness and consolation. ‘Before any children arrive, that is.’

Twisted anger corkscrewed through Elliot. Before he could think of a reason not to, he crossed the entrance, swung wide, and punched Horatio Webb on the chin.

Mr Webb staggered back, grabbing at the balustrade. It slowed his fall, but did not stop his arse from colliding with the floor.

‘She’s not marrying you, you boring old toad,’ Elliot bellowed as Mr Webb pushed himself up with one hand while cradling his chin with the other. ‘She’s staying right here.’

And, ignoring his stepmother’s gasp and his father’s shouts, Elliot bounded up the stairs.

Viola raced after him. ‘What are you doing?’ she snarled. ‘You said you would behave. You said you wouldn’t make a scene!’

‘I need to find Ava.’ He kept his focus on the landing at the top of the stairs. When he reached it, he made for the hallway that led to the entrance above the ballroom. ‘She belongs here. This is her home.’

‘Don’t you dare ruin her chance, Elliot. Don’t you dare .’ Viola lifted her skirts as she hurried to keep pace with him.

‘I love her.’ The words were simple. As simple as when she’d confessed them to him, and as he said them aloud, he knew they were true. ‘And she loves me.’

‘You don’t love anyone.’ Viola’s voice chased him as she started to lag. It shot cold and bitter along the hall. ‘You toy with women and discard them without a thought. But you will not do that to my friend.’

‘Of course,’ he shot back over his shoulder. ‘I’m the terrible son. Always the problem?—’

‘This isn’t a game you can win!’ Viola’s shrill screech filled the hallway, such an uncharacteristic sound from the woman who found comfort in cool control. ‘If you make promises and don’t keep them, if you hurt her, she’ll be distraught. And I’ll lose my best friend.’

Elliot slowed, his feet dragging against the carpet.

‘You only see victory, she continued. ‘But you couldn’t tell the difference between her and any other debutante. I bet if you had to find her, you’d be distracted by the first pair of bosoms on display.’

Elliot pointed an accusatory finger at his sister. ‘You are wrong. I could spot her from a hundred yards away.’

He turned the corner and stepped through the arch, past those vases he hated and across the landing, finally reaching the balustrade that looked out over the wood and gilt of the ballroom.

The room sang like a band of bluebirds, bubbling with life and festivity.

Half the damn county was here, from clerks to factory owners, from engineers to lawyers, all with their daughters frocked up and on display.

So. Many. Debutantes.

Elliot stalled at the top of the stairs.

Feathers, ruffles, flounces, and lace—the room swirled with them.

He scanned the floor… there she was! Elliot made for the stairs, but at he descended the first few steps, the woman turned, and her movement was coarse, not soft and measured like Ava’s.

Was that her, by the window, fanning herself?

No, Ava would never use a feathered fan.

He turned to Viola. ‘They’re all in white. And masked.’

‘It’s a debutante’s ball. What did you expect?’

Viola ambled over to the balustrade. She leant against it and swept her hand across the room. ‘Go on, then. Show me what she means to you. Find her.’

Elliot took the stairs two at a time. He could do this.

He could find her. He knew her, had spent countless hours with her.

True, she was no taller or shorter than most, and her hair would be pinned, and he had been so busy imagining her without her dress that he could scarcely pull it into his memory…

Bloody hell, every damn debutante looked the same.

Ava had eyes like a storm, but he couldn’t very well grasp every woman by the chin and push back their masks.

With a defeated sigh, he had to admit the truth.

Ava did not stand out in a crowded room, even without a costume and a mask.

She was just… Ava. That’s what he liked best about her.

Loved best about her. And what he loved didn’t stand out against the melee.

If he couldn’t tell a joke, how would he hear her laugh?

With the music so loud, how could he hear her hum to herself as she made herself happy with a tune?

They all wore gloves, so he could not search for the scar where she’d climbed a barbed fence and split her finger open so badly she’d needed it stitched.

She’d been lucky not to get an infection that could have killed her.

If she became his wife—no, when —he would lift her over fences so that she’d never come to harm.

Elliot slipped between groups, hunted between dancers with their full skirts, tulle, and petticoats rustling, kept searching and studying each one…

but no, no, no, none of them were his Ava.

He turned in a helpless circle. Maybe Viola was right. Maybe he didn’t deserve her. Maybe she’d be happier with someone else.

Wait… What was that?

A soft sob… Who would cry amidst such joviality?

Who would be sad on a night like this? He followed the sound and fixated on each swirling dancer for a moment before flipping to the next.

At last, he saw it—a tear like a shard of glass on the cheek of a woman who spun in an obedient circle just a little way away.

Elliot scanned the floor again. Ruffles and lace, satin and beads, but also: feathers. So many feathers.

Oh, his poor Ava. Her heart must be breaking.

Elliot strode forwards, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her towards him.

The man spluttered out, ‘I do beg your pardon?’ but Elliot ignored him and dragged her to the edge of the dance floor.

He pushed the mask from her face to find that upturned nose, those kissable lips, those eyes like a storm—Ava.

‘The feathers…’ she said, half choked, then burst into helpless tears. ‘There are so many feathers.’

Elliot pulled her against his chest. ‘Let’s get you away from here.’

‘But Mr Webb…’

‘You are not going to marry him. You are going to marry me.’ And with a glance at the landing, Elliot waved at Viola, then pulled Ava out the door.