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Charity was in fine form, keenly aware of what she was doing to him and delighting in it. She shifted, but it was no more than a feint for the other attendees. Really, she smoothed her skirts, sending her perfume floating through the air, and did nothing to move away.

It was a peculiar, enjoyable kind of torment—this slow burn to exquisite ruin, done by the smallest of degrees. The temptation was strong to embrace destruction. To allow himself, for just a moment, to indulge.

To forget.

Try to forget , his mother whispered in his ear, but I think you will remember you belong to me.

Do I, though, Mother? After all, you cast me aside. His gaze drifted across the room, catching the Barbours in a moment of quiet affection. He envied it.

Tell me, dearest , she murmured from the dark corners of memory. Do you truly believe she won’t do the same, once she learns what you really are?

Of course, he didn’t. If Charity peeled back the dust cloths on the last five years of his life, she would be horrified. A woman like her could never knowingly choose a man like him. Not unless he lied. And hoped the past stayed locked behind shuttered doors.

But that was the future. Tonight was different.

Tonight, he was playing the role of Cinderella , full well knowing the magic would break with the final stroke of midnight.

So he took a glass of wine from the passing footman and offered it to Charity, ensuring their fingers brushed as he passed it to her. The faint flush that coloured her cheeks told him he wasn’t the only one clinging to whatever pleasure they could draw from the illusion.

Lord Barbour, ever deft, steered the conversation into deeper waters. Though he fancied himself an artist and a poet, both he and his wife had the instincts of tacticians.

"Loyalty," Barbour said, voice smooth and genial, "is an interesting question, is it not?

Her Grace speaks of duty to the Crown—commendable, of course—but others of us must balance competing claims: ideals, the people we represent…

and in the case of His Excellency, the delicate waltz between the master you serve and the master of this land.

Anyone who believes it simple is na?ve at best. "

"You forgot the heart, Lord Barbour, and I must confess, I am disappointed," Peregrine said, his grin tempering the reproof. "For if a poet who married for love does not place it foremost among consideration, who else might?"

Barbour tipped his glass in salute. "Ah, but as Shakespeare wrote in Love’s Labour’s Lost , ‘And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods make heaven drowsy with the harmony.’ But love speaks so rarely, Lord Fitzroy, that we are apt to forget it speaks at all."

"Or its voice is drowned out by reason," Mr Godwin interjected, his tone bearing the weight of Tory caution. "As in the case of Prinny’s insistence on seeing his daughter wed. Peace in Europe is as delicate as a butterfly’s wings.

We must do all we can to preserve it. To that end, forging alliances with like-minded powers is paramount, would you not agree, Your Excellency? "

"Europe breathes easily for the moment, Mr Godwin.

One hopes England, Russia, and others will recognise the wisdom of cautious stewardship," the Russian count replied with diplomatic poise.

"As for the prospective marriage of the Princess of Wales, I am not, I think, the most qualified here to comment on the matter. "

"Qualifications—or the good sense to choose the proper time and place—rarely prevent some from offering their opinions," Mr Godwin said pointedly, his gaze flicking toward the Whig beside him, his nostrils flaring with disdain.

"Come now," Lord Barbour interjected smoothly, "we mustn’t go laying blame upon doorsteps without first establishing who owns the house."

"Indeed," Mr Carew agreed languidly. His thick moustache twitched over a deepening frown.

"Lord Cavendish was so horrified that he fled to his country seat.

Whoever opened the gates to those protesters did no favours to my party.

Are you quite certain your hands are clean, Mr Godwin?

I noticed Lord Eldon departed early. Did he, perhaps, leave the door ajar behind him? "

The Tory flushed a dark shade of crimson, lifting a hand as if to jab a finger in his opponent’s face. But before he could utter a word, to Peregrine’s surprise it was Charity who spoke.

"Ultimately, it will be the princess who decides whether the alliance proceeds.

And who among us can speak with authority on what lies in her heart?

" Charity said calmly. "I have spent many hours in her company and do not envy her.

She must live each day with the consequences.

Matters would be far simpler were she even half so fortunate as our gracious hosts, to find abiding love that transcends all else. "

"Well said," murmured the Russian countess, speaking for the first time. She proved her diplomatic finesse by deftly steering the conversation away from dangerous waters and toward safer territory.

Talk moved to the latest production in the West End, and whether it was worthy of its playwright’s former triumphs.

Peregrine only added the occasional remark, playing the role of genial observer with the easy charm he had spent years perfecting.

But to say he followed the conversation closely would be a lie.

Time and again, his thoughts drifted to the woman seated at his side.

He tossed back the last of his wine, forcing his mind back into the present. The Whig’s jab at Lord Eldon had stirred a memory he’d let slip in the chaos of the past days—the meeting at Burlington House, and Eldon’s abrupt departure just afterward.

When Mr Carew eventually rose and stepped outside for a cigar, Peregrine followed. He declined the offer of one with a shake of the head, murmuring about needing only a breath of fresh air to clear his thoughts.

"Were I seated beside such a glorious creature, I daresay I, too, would require assistance clearing my thoughts," Carew said, with more than a hint of envy.

Peregrine smiled briefly. "I was speaking with Her Grace when the rioters breached Cavendish’s gathering, and I would far rather face down the French again than endure that a second time. We were deuced lucky the outcome was not worse."

He paused for a moment and then added, "I happened to see Lord Eldon speaking with someone before he left. A clerk of his, if I’m not mistaken. From his expression, I assumed the news was unwelcome."

Mr Carew cast a quick glance toward the salon door to ensure it was shut, then leaned in slightly, voice dropping.

"His office was burgled. The Tories are keeping quiet about what was taken, but I doubt it was anything minor.

Why else bury it? Mark me—I suspect whatever occurred that night was of greater consequence than raised voices in a ballroom.

But then, Tories have always excelled at keeping their scandals off the front page. "

Perry chuckled dryly. That he helped bury the latest scandal made the irony sharper. “Such discipline is why they remain in power.”

The salon ended soon after, and as Peregrine escorted Charity out to the carriage, he noted a look of disappointment on her face. “You look rather forlorn for a woman who held the room in her palm all evening,” he teased her gently. “Did you not enjoy yourself?”

“I did,” she said, looking up at him. “I only wish the night was not so eager to be done with us.”

He felt very much the same. “Well… if you are inclined to suffer my poor company a little longer, I daresay we might find some mischief to occupy us.”

“Goodness, my lord,” she said archly, the ripple of a laugh in her voice. “If I did not know better, I would think you were trying to lead me astray. ”

“Of course not. I would never be so naughty.” He leaned just a little closer, and her perfume drowned his better senses. “Though if I were… would you trust me not to get us into trouble?”

A fierce blush stained her cheekbones adorably. He was the worst sort of cad, to enjoy provoking her this way. But as he watched Charity’s lips parting, her breath picking up speed, he knew her body was also thrilling in this illicit dance along the edges of impropriety.

“I trust you,” she whispered, letting the footmen hand her into the carriage.

God help him, she shouldn’t. Because for all the suggestion in his words, his intentions had been chaste.

And now Peregrine was left choking on the taste of his own provocation, the joke half-dead in his throat.

He bought himself a moment to compose himself, whispering their next destination to Hodges before he joined her in the carriage.

As the carriage slowed, Charity brushed aside the curtain to peer out, then drew back, startled. “Vauxhall Gardens? Half of London will be there!”

"Was that not the point?" Peregrine replied, reaching past her to flick the curtain back into place. He gave her a look that was part challenge, part devilry. "Second thoughts about our little charade? We can go home instead."

She lifted her chin stubbornly, her eyes sparking. “No. You wanted them to whisper. Well, then, let them.”

Indeed, tongues began wagging the moment Peregrine helped Charity descend from the carriage. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, took a steadying breath, and stepped forward through the gates.

It was a new experience for both of them—not merely the sort of public outing associated with courtship, which Peregrine had avoided since coming into his majority, but something far more disarming: the fact that they were enjoying it.

He did not miss the way Charity’s gaze sought his when conversation pulled them in separate directions. And though he told himself he watched her only out of concern for her safety, he knew, in his heart, the lie of that excuse.

The moonlight made her ivory gown gleam like silk poured from the stars, and the flickering gaslight turned her hair to molten gold. Only a blind man, or an utter fool, could ignore her. And truly, there were no blind men that evening in Vauxhall.

They flocked around Charity, working to entice her away from Peregrine’s side.

As he watched them natter at her inanely, a surge of jealous possession finally drove him to reclaim his spot.

Mine , Peregrine thought, rudely cutting off the man mid-word as he offered her his arm.

“We are late for an appointment,” he told her.

Charity raised her brows in confusion, but did not contradict his statement. “A third stop, Peregrine? Surely you jest?”

But he did not lead her to the gate. Instead, he guided her onto the swept stones that served as a dance floor beneath the stars. The orchestra struck up the opening notes of a waltz.

There were titters from the crowd. The couples on the floor began to drift away, leaving only the married—and those openly courting. But she followed, instead of pulling away.

Peregrine slid his arm around Charity’s waist, wishing not for the first time that he could remove his gloves and feel the satin of her gown beneath his palm.

That she would take hers off, and lay her palms to his cheek again, as when he had lain fevered.

But perhaps her skin would be hot to the touch instead of the comforting coolness this time, because it felt like his shoulder burned where her fingers lay .

They moved as though they had danced together a hundred times before. Neither spoke. Their eyes said more than words could manage.

This was the dance he should have had with her, last year, at his ball. Where she would have ended her night with a pleasant memory instead of fractured nightmares. At least now he could give her a dance she would remember the way he did.

And then midnight struck.

A burst of fireworks overhead scattered colour across the night sky and drew delighted gasps from the crowd, shattering the spell. The evening was drawing to its end; the entertainments had run their course.

Peregrine felt the familiar weight returning. Reality waited beyond the garden's glow.

Charity must have felt it too. As guests turned to make their departures, she lingered and said softly, “Do we have time for a walk? It is only… I have never been before, and I have heard so much?—”

As excuses went, it was flimsy. But he didn’t care.

He offered his arm with gratitude for the warm night, and she slipped hers through it with a closeness that made him ache. Once they entered the Long Walk, she went so far as to rest her head lightly on his shoulder.

The gas lamps dwindled, leaving long stretches of darkness between the pools of light—perfect for couples in search of shadows and seclusion.

Peregrine slowed their pace, letting the couple ahead of them fade into the distance. It was sheer folly, but he no longer cared. Her perfume clung to him, twining with his scent of cloves. It fogged his thoughts, turning every rational argument to smoke.

Where the darkness pooled, deep enough for a person to vanish, that was where he meant to stop. But before he could draw her close, before he could press his lips to the delicate pulse at her throat, Charity gave a sharp, shocked gasp—and was pulled sideways from his grasp.