Sophia smirked. "No. But she may make him wish she would."
* * *
Outside on the terrace, a gentle breeze carried the crisp scent of spring as it met Alexandra’s flushed cheeks. Relief mingled with uncertainty as she stepped away from the blur of chandeliers and music. She hadn’t realized how much she needed the stillness until it wrapped around her, soothing her nerves. She stood alone for a moment, taking in the moonlight, the sounds of distant violins, and the way her heart continued to beat far too quickly.
She had danced with Lord Langley.
Willingly. Joyfully.
And somehow, she was already wishing she could do it again.
"Enjoying the night?" came his voice behind her.
She didn’t turn. Her breath caught slightly, her body instinctively aware of his nearness before her mind allowed it. She hated that part of herself—the part that noticed.
"That depends. Have you followed me to gloat?"
"To offer company,” he said.
"Unwanted."
"Unconvincing."
He joined her at the railing. They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the party a soft hum behind them.
"That wasn’t so terrible, was it?" he asked.
“Perhaps not."
"Progress."
She looked at him then, truly looked. He shifted his weight subtly, hands clasped behind his back as if grounding himself in her gaze. The usual smirk had faded, replaced by something quieter—his eyes held a softness she hadn't expected, a flicker of vulnerability that made her chest ache. He wasn’t smiling now. Not in the practiced, devil-may-care way he wore like armor at every social gathering. Instead, something tentative lingered in his expression—a flicker of awe, of quiet vulnerability he hadn't expected, much less wanted.
"Why me?" she asked.
"Because you don’t pretend. Because you laugh with your whole face. Because you are the only woman who has ever looked me in the eye and threatened bodily harm without blinking."
"That sounds less like romance and more like a cautionary tale."
"Perhaps. But it’s a tale I can’t stop reading."
She turned away, heart tripping. Part of her wanted to believe him, to sink into the heady promise of something real. But another part—fierce and frightened—reminded her that believing in such things had consequences.
"Don’t," she whispered. If she believed him, if she let herself fall, it would mean risking everything—her heart, her freedom, and the illusion of control she clung to.
"Don’t what?"
"Make this more than it is. It’s flirtation. Fun. A fleeting thing,” she said, shifting to put space between them.
He considered that, his gaze searching her face.
"Is that what you want it to be?"
She didn’t answer.
Not with words.
But when she walked back inside, she could still feel his gaze like a promise on her skin—one that both warmed and unsettled her, leaving her breathless with the terrifying thought that she might actually want to believe in it.
