The air in the ballroom of Lady Danbury's townhouse was thick with the scent of beeswax, expensive perfumes, and the stifling weight of expectation. For Lady Amelia, it felt like a cage gilded in gold.
She watched her mother, the Countess of Ashbury, eyeing the Earl of Crawley as if he were a prize stallion rather than a man who spent more time discussing his gout than his feelings. Amelia felt the walls closing in. With a flick of her lace fan, she caught the eye of a friend and made a silent excuse, slipping through the French doors into the gardens.
The night air was a cool balm against her heated skin.
She began to move, a slow, rhythmic twirl that had nothing to do with the rigid steps of the quadrille. Here, under the stars, she wasn't a commodity to be traded for a cleared debt. She was just Amelia.
"You're out of step, My Lady," a velvet voice murmured from the shadows.
Amelia froze. Sir Henry stepped into the moonlight. He looked every bit the rogue the gossip columns warned against—cravat slightly loosened, eyes sparking with a dangerous intelligence.
"Sir Henry," she breathed, her heart hammering a rhythm her corset couldn't contain. "You shouldn't be here. If my brother finds us—"
"He won't," Henry said, closing the distance between them. "He's currently occupied with a decanter of brandy and a very boring discussion on grain prices."
He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist. "May I have this dance? No music, no chaperones, just the stars as our witnesses."
Amelia knew that to say yes was to court ruin. But as he drew her into a waltz, the world of the ton faded. The whispers of the ballroom were replaced by the rustle of leaves and the frantic beat of two hearts in sync. When he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, he whispered the words that would change everything.
"I know your secret, Amelia. And I think it's time you knew mine."
Before she could ask, his lips met hers—a stolen kiss that tasted of rebellion and the terrifying promise of a future they would have to fight to keep.