Alexandra had never been a woman easily rattled. She had faced down matchmaking mamas, pompous peers, and Lord Cedric Hargrove’s insipid poetry without once flinching. But now, as she paced the length of her bedchamber with the memory of Lord Langley’s public proposal still vivid in her mind, she found herself thoroughly, wholly, rattled.
“Challenge accepted,” he had said, his voice rich with challenge and confidence. At the time, she'd rolled her eyes—but even then, something inside her had thrilled at his audacity. It had been infuriating. And invigorating. And entirely unforgettable.
As though winning her hand were merely the next round of their never-ending game.
Only this time, the stakes were not pride or a dance at a ball—this time, it was everything she had carefully avoided all Season. She had entered society intending to remain untouched by romance, determined to prove she didn’t need it. And now? Now she stood on the precipice of something real and frighteningly tender. This time, it was her heart on the line—fragile, untested, and entirely unprepared for the way it had begun to beat faster at the thought of him.
Her chest tightened with the admission, breath catching like a secret she hadn’t meant to speak aloud.
A knock at the door interrupted her anxious thoughts. Mrs. Greaves entered with a letter balanced atop a silver tray.
“It’s from him,” her lady’s maid said dryly.
Alexandra raised a brow. “How can you possibly know that?”
Mrs. Greaves tapped the envelope. “Expensive parchment. Smells faintly of bergamot and overconfidence.”
Despite herself, Alexandra rolled her eyes and bit back a smile, warmth rising uninvited to her cheeks.
She broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and read:
My dearest storm-chaser,
Meet me this evening. No audience. No expectations. Just you and me, and the moonlight. The gardens of Rowley House at half past nine.
Come if you wish to see what forever might look like.
-M
Her breath caught. A thousand emotions surged—doubt, longing, a flicker of fear—and all of them pointed toward him. Toward the risk. Toward the possibility of something real.
Alexandra stared at the words.
“Is he mad?” she murmured, her fingers brushing over the parchment again. And yet, her pulse fluttered—was it dread, or the thrill of being seen so completely?
Mrs. Greaves arched a brow. “You kissed him in the rain. Madness may already be mutual.”
* * *
Rowley House sat on the edge of London’s fashionable Mayfair district, an elegant estate known for its sprawling gardens and famed peacocks. Alexandra arrived just as the city’s gas lamps began to flicker to life and the last vestiges of sunset bled from the sky.
Louisa had insisted on accompanying her in the carriage, though she remained behind once they arrived, seated with Lord Redford on a nearby bench with a shawl and a pair of opera glasses she claimed were purely ornamental.
Alexandra stepped through the iron gates and into the moonlit garden. The night was cool but not cold, fragrant with roses and jasmine. Alexandra paused just inside the gate, drawing a slow breath. The scent settled over her like a balm, soothing some of the nervous fluttering in her chest.
And then she saw him.
Magnus stood beneath an arch of wisteria, dressed in his evening coat but with no cravat and a wild, unguarded look in his eyes. Beside him, a small table was set with a linen cloth, silverware, two champagne flutes, and an elegantly packed picnic basket.
“You brought me here for food?” she asked, hands on hips, bracing herself for something overly dramatic—a rooftop serenade, perhaps, or worse, a speech before the ton. Her tone was skeptical, but a flicker of anticipation danced behind her eyes. Part of her, maddeningly, hoped there was more to this gesture than a simple picnic.
He grinned, though the movement was tinged with something softer—nervousness, perhaps. “Not just food. A gesture. A grand one.”
“You know I hate being made a spectacle,” she said, her voice tight as her gaze darted away, hands clasping the edge of her skirt in an unconscious plea for control.
“No spectacle. No crowds. Just us. No expectations, remember?”
He pulled out a chair. She hesitated, the flicker of hesitation born not from doubt, but from the terrifying swell of hope in her chest. Curiosity warred with longing—and longing won. Then she sat.
