And Magnus, watching her disappear into the crowd, felt the first stirrings of something wholly unfamiliar. It was a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with victory—a quiet ache, a sense of longing that tugged unexpectedly at his composure. Hope, he realized, was a treacherous thing. It crept in when his guard was down, whispering promises he hadn’t dared to imagine since he’d learned that affection could be fleeting and loyalty conditional. It was dangerous precisely because it asked him to believe—in someone else, in a future he’d long dismissed as fantasy. It felt unsteady, exhilarating, and far too real.
Not desire. Not challenge.
Something far more dangerous.
Hope. The kind that bloomed slowly, like a bud pushing through frost—delicate, improbable, and wholly unwelcome. And yet, there it was, rooting in the very place he'd sworn to keep barren. He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening against the unfamiliar ache in his chest.
Chapter 4
The countryside fête hosted by Lady Marshwell was meant to be a charming, genteel affair filled with picnics, parlor games brought outdoors, and enough soft pastel ribbons to choke a haberdasher. Alexandra had arrived in fine spirits, determined to enjoy the rolling green fields, the scent of wildflowers, and at least one round of lawn darts with dangerously inappropriate aim. After days of scandal, whispers, and unwelcome emotions she could not quite name, she needed this—sunlight, space, and something to aim at that wasn't a rakish earl with an infuriating smile.
The sun beamed overhead in defiance of the gloomy spring rains that had plagued London for the better part of a week. It was, in truth, a perfect day. Or it had been.
Until the clouds rolled in. The breeze shifted first, slipping between her shoulder blades like a whisper of warning. The sky darkened at the edges, the sun retreating behind clouds with the reluctant grace of a ballroom guest who'd overstayed their welcome. It was the kind of moment that made the world hold its breath—before everything changed.
She tilted her head back, watching the sky shift from cheery blue to the color of polished steel. A chill prickled along her arms, the shift in pressure pressing against her chest.
"We have exactly ten minutes," she muttered.
"Ten minutes until what?" Genny asked, as she delicately plucked a strawberry tart from the overflowing picnic spread.
"Until chaos."
Genny looked skyward and shrugged. "It’s England. There is always rain."
"Yes, but rarely does it descend with such theatrical timing.” Alexandra set her napkin aside.
She glanced around. The fête was in full swing. Gentlemen tossed shuttlecocks with bored precision, ladies gathered beneath embroidered parasols, and the string quartet on the edge of the hill played a waltz just slow enough to lull everyone into complacency.
Somewhere behind her, she heard the unmistakable laugh of Lord Langley.
"Of course he’s here," she muttered.
Genny looked amused. "You didn’t know?"
"If I had known, I’d have brought my parasol tipped with poison.” She gave a teasing smile.
"You keep threatening bodily harm, and yet he continues to pursue you."
"Which means he’s either a masochist or a fool."
"Or hopelessly smitten,” Genny said.
Alexandra threw her friend a withering glare.
Before Genny could press the matter, the first raindrop struck.
It landed squarely on the tip of Alexandra’s nose. She blinked. Then another followed, and another.
Gasps erupted around the field, sharp and scattered.
"Oh dear," Genny said brightly. "Looks like your prediction was accurate."
Alexandra stood. "I detest being trapped indoors with the ton. I’m going to enjoy the rain while it lasts."
"You are going into the storm?"
"Absolutely."
