Bloomsbury Square glittered that evening with an elegance sharpened by anticipation.
Lady Jane St. Clair's townhouse stood fully illuminated, its tall windows casting warm light upon the line of waiting carriages below. Diplomats, peers, and carefully ambitious mothers alike ascended the steps beneath the discreet gaze of liveried footmen, each guest carrying the same quiet expectation into the ballroom.
Inside, conversation flowed smoothly—too smoothly.
It was the first grand gathering of the 1814 Season, and while it was nominally hosted by Sir Laurence St. Clair and his lady wife, few doubted the true object of the evening's interest.
Lady Elizabeth Talbot stood near the center of the ballroom beside her parents, Earl William and Countess Rose Talbot. Her gown was a pale silver-blue, the silk catching the candlelight like frost beneath dawn. The empire waist fell in graceful simplicity, and a narrow ribbon of soft pearl trimmed her sleeves. Her hair, drawn into an elegant arrangement at the crown, left only the faintest curls to soften her cheeks.
She looked precisely what London expected her to be.
The future Marchioness of Cheshire.
Guests greeted her warmly—too warmly.
"My dear Lady Elizabeth," one matron exclaimed, squeezing her gloved fingers. "How radiant you look this evening."
Another added, in a tone that carried farther than intended, "Quite bridal."
Elizabeth smiled with practiced serenity.
Across the room, Emma Finch—her second eldest sister—stood laughing lightly beside her husband, Viscount Adolphus Finch. Emma's eyes flickered toward Elizabeth once, affectionate yet knowing. Even she understood the hum beneath the music.
At the far end of the ballroom, Lady Jersey conversed in animated tones with a cluster of fashionable guests, while Her Majesty Queen Charlotte sat with composed authority, the Prince Regent at her side, both observing the assembly with interest that felt almost theatrical.
The Queen's presence ensured decorum.
The Prince Regent's ensured spectacle.
And yet, neither commanded as much attention as the space near the entrance when the next arrival was announced.
"Marquess of Cheshire."
The sound seemed to ripple outward.
Andrew Russell entered with measured ease, dressed in dark evening attire that sharpened the brightness of his copper hair. The candlelight caught faintly along the strong angles of his jaw and cheekbones, and for a moment—just a moment—the murmur of the ballroom softened.
He bowed first to the Queen.
Then to the Prince Regent.
Then to his mother, Dowager Marchioness Guinevere Russell, who inclined her head with quiet pride.
Only then did his gaze find Elizabeth.
And in that instant, whatever society believed it was witnessing became something else entirely.
There was nothing hurried in his approach. No dramatic urgency. Only certainty.
Elizabeth lowered into a graceful curtsy as he stopped before her.
"My lady."
"My lord."
The titles felt heavier than usual.
Around them, the orchestra began a waltz.
It was Lady Jersey who spoke first, her voice bright and deliberate.
"Well," she declared to no one and everyone at once, "I imagine we shall have happy news before supper."
A ripple of laughter followed.
Not unkind. But pointed.
Queen Charlotte's gaze sharpened with interest.
The Prince Regent leaned slightly forward.
Sir Laurence St. Clair, ever diplomatic, observed without expression. Jane's fingers tightened just slightly around her fan.
William Talbot said nothing at all.
Andrew extended his hand.
"May I?"
Elizabeth placed her gloved fingers in his.
They stepped onto the floor together beneath a hundred watching eyes.
The waltz carried them forward, smooth and practiced. Their movements aligned effortlessly—too effortlessly. They had danced like this since girlhood and youth, since long before titles had weight.
"You look beautiful," Andrew said quietly.
"And you," she replied, "look as though you have been examined."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "Have I not?"
She did not answer.
Around them, whispers gathered like silk against marble.
Two years.
Two Seasons.
Still engaged.
Still waiting.
As the waltz turned them past the center of the room, Elizabeth became aware of how many gazes followed them—not with curiosity, but with expectation.
Andrew felt it too. The music swelled.
The final notes of the waltz faded into polite applause, and the couples separated with graceful bows. Conversation resumed at once—low, measured, but sharper now, as though everyone had been waiting for something to happen during the dance.
Nothing had.
And that nothing was noticed.
Andrew escorted Elizabeth back toward her family. Sir Laurence St. Clair was already engaged in animated discussion with the Prince Regent and Viscount Adolphus Finch.
"…the Emperor's position remains precarious," Laurence was saying smoothly. "Though not yet defeated, one suspects the continent grows weary."
The Prince Regent lifted a brow. "Napoleon is nothing if not resilient."
"Resilience," Adolphus added thoughtfully, "is admirable. But alliances shift quickly."
Andrew inclined his head in acknowledgment as he approached. Political discussion provided a convenient shield.
Across the room, however, another conversation was forming.
Jane and Emma moved toward Elizabeth with deliberate sweetness. And behind them—unexpectedly—Queen Charlotte herself rose and joined the circle.
Elizabeth curtsied immediately.
"My dear Lady Elizabeth," the Queen said warmly, though her gaze was keen, "you have danced beautifully this evening."
"Your Majesty is most kind."
Emma smiled at her sister. "And glowing."
Jane added lightly, "We have all been waiting."
Elizabeth blinked. "Waiting?"
Queen Charlotte tilted her head. "Surely there is to be an announcement?"
The word settled like a dropped glass.
Elizabeth's smile remained—but only just.
"What announcement, Your Majesty?"
Jane's fan stilled.
Emma's eyes flickered briefly toward Andrew.
The Queen studied her carefully, as though assessing not just the answer—but the space around it.
"Ah," she said after a moment. "Then perhaps we are merely impatient."
Across the ballroom, Edmund Talbot had approached Andrew, who stood beside Kurt near the refreshments.
Society noticed at once.
Three men.
Both are eligible.
One long engaged.
One newly of age.
One hasn't made his intentions clear yet.
Edmund's voice was calm, but it carried.
"Andrew."
Andrew turned. "Talbot."
The room quieted—not entirely, but enough.
Kurt, sensing something dangerous, stepped back half a pace.
Edmund faced Andrew squarely. "It seems expectations are high this evening."
Andrew's jaw tightened slightly. "So I have gathered."
The eyes of Bloomsbury Square were upon them now.
Lady Jersey leaned closer to observe.
The Prince Regent paused mid-sentence.
Queen Charlotte did not sit down.
Edmund spoke clearly.
"I have reached my twentieth year," he said, his tone steady. "And I believe it is time I declare my own intentions."
A murmur rippled outward.
"I shall be seeking a suitable wife this Season."
The effect was immediate.
Attention shifted.
Mothers recalculated.
Debutantes turned their heads.
A new target had emerged.
Kurt exhaled under his breath. "Well done."
The room filled once more with polite noise—congratulations offered, inquiries begun, speculation renewed.
Andrew stood very still.
Edmund had drawn the fire.
But for a moment—just before that declaration—every eye had been on Andrew.
And he had said nothing.
Kurt leaned closer once the crowd shifted away.
"What happened?" he muttered.
Andrew swallowed. "Nothing."
"You were about to speak."
"I was not."
"You were," Kurt insisted quietly. "You opened your mouth."
Andrew looked toward the center of the room, where Elizabeth now stood with her sisters, her expression composed but distant.
"I had nothing prepared," Andrew said at last.
Kurt blinked. "Prepared?"
Andrew's voice lowered. "If I speak, it must be certain."
"And you are not certain?"
Andrew did not answer.
He did not need to.
Kurt stared at him, startled for once into silence.
Behind them, soft but unmistakable, came the sound of approaching footsteps.
Dowager Marchioness Guinevere Russell stopped at Andrew's side.
"You hesitated," she said quietly.
Andrew did not look at her.
"Yes."
"And the entire room saw it."
"Yes."
Guinevere's voice softened, but it did not lose its edge. "Andrew, my dear boy… society is patient only until it grows curious."
Across the ballroom, Elizabeth felt it too.
The shift.
The relief that Edmund had spoken.
And the question that remained unanswered.
The second waltz began with obedient grace, as though nothing at all had faltered.
Andrew remained where he stood for precisely three measures of music before he made his decision.
"Excuse me," he said quietly—to no one in particular—and stepped away from the warmth of the ballroom.
No one stopped him.
That, perhaps, was worse.
The corridor beyond the ballroom was dimmer, the air cooler, the sounds of music muffled by paneled walls and heavy drapery. He moved with composed steps, each one steady, each one deliberate.
He had nearly reached the French doors leading toward the terrace when he heard them.
Two ladies. Older. Confident in their privacy.
"Well," one murmured, "that was rather telling."
"Hesitation," said the other. "I saw it plainly."
Andrew slowed without meaning to.
"Two years engaged," the first continued. "And still no announcement."
"Perhaps he is reconsidering."
A soft intake of breath.
"Oh, how dreadful that would be for Lady Elizabeth."
"Dreadful—and embarrassing."
"He looked uncertain."
"He looked cornered."
"And the poor girl—standing there as though she did not know what was coming."
Andrew's jaw tightened.
"Men of rank must decide quickly," one said. "A young lady's reputation does not pause indefinitely."
"And she is very suitable, of course. Beautiful. Well-mannered. Accomplished."
A pause.
"But suitability is not always enough."
The words landed harder than they had any right to.
Andrew stepped forward then, making his presence unmistakable.
The ladies startled at once.
"My lord—!"
He bowed politely, expression unreadable.
"Good evening."
They curtsied, flushed with embarrassment, and retreated quickly back toward the music.
Silence returned.
Andrew pushed open the French doors and stepped onto the terrace.
The night air struck cool against his face, carrying the faint scent of spring and distant smoke from London's endless chimneys. Bloomsbury Square lay calm beyond the iron railings, carriages lined in quiet order beneath the lamplight.
He exhaled slowly.
Suitability is not always enough.
He leaned his hands against the stone balustrade, staring into the dark.
Elizabeth deserved certainty.
She deserved a husband who did not hesitate in front of a ballroom full of witnesses.
She deserved a man who could stand beneath the gaze of a queen and speak without doubt.
And he had opened his mouth—
And nothing had come.
Inside, the music swelled again.
Laughter followed.
Life continued.
Behind him, the doors shifted softly.
He did not turn immediately.
He did not need to.
There was only one person who would follow him into the night air without announcement.
And he was not yet certain he deserved her too.