Alexandra set the book down, heart light.
“Let us see what he does next,” she added with a knowing glance, her lips curving in that mischievous way Sophia knew too well. A flicker of hope bloomed in her chest, soft and tentative—the kind that makes your heart beat faster not from fear, but from exhilaration.
* * *
Magnus knew exactly what to do next.
He called on her father. Again.
But this time, it was not to ask permission.
It was to make a promise. He would win Alexandra’s hand.
“I will not rush her,” he said. “I will wait. As long as it takes.”
Whitby studied him with weary suspicion, the kind born of long years raising three strong-willed daughters and fending off scoundrels. He remembered Alexandra at five years old, declaring she would one day lead an army—or a scandal.
Even then, she had been a force to be reckoned with, her fierce spirit evident in every rebellious declaration. That wild nature had not dulled over the years—if anything, it had grown sharper and more radiant, much to his consternation and occasional grudging admiration. She was a woman who knew her mind and followed it, regardless of opinion or consequence. “And if she says no?” he asked, though his tone carried a flicker of something more—perhaps grudging respect or the faintest hint of reluctant approval.
In truth, he had not thought Magnus would return after the fiasco of yesterday, and here he was, standing like a man who refused to be swayed by either obstacle or propriety.
Magnus smiled. “She will not,” he said, unflinching, though a flicker of tension tightened his jaw. He believed it—needed to believe it—but still, the weight of uncertainty pressed somewhere deep in his chest.
He turned to leave, knowing that more words would not serve and that he would need to show his fortitude through action. The campaign ahead may be long, but for the first time, he was undaunted by the prospect. In fact, it thrilled him.
* * *
The first offering arrived at the Peregrine townhouse the next morning, drawing no small bit of attention.
Alexandra received a bouquet of storm lilies the next day.
And the day after that, a book of sonnets annotated in Magnus’s handwriting.
And on the forth day, a note:
I will never stop chasing the storm. Because it always leads me to you.
She folded the note and tucked it into her bodice, letting her fingers linger for a moment over the place it rested. It was foolish, perhaps, but it felt like hope—soft and exhilarating and terrifying all at once. In that moment, she understood, the journey had not been about evading love—it had been about learning to trust it, to trust herself.
A slow, sure smile curled across her lips—one of a promise made not just with words, but with the steady beating of two hearts finally aligned.
Chapter 7
The final grand ball of the season was the kind of affair whispered about weeks in advance and dissected for months after. Hosted at the opulent Bellweather House, where gold-leaf moldings sparkled beneath candlelight and musicians played from a marble balcony, it was a fitting end to a season that had already seen more scandal, more spectacle, and more surprises than the last three combined.
Alexandra arrived fashionably late. Her gown of midnight blue silk shimmered with each confident step, catching the light like starlight. Beneath her composed exterior, her heart hammered with a mix of defiance and anticipation. Each step drew attention, yet her poise held firm—on the outside. Inside, Alexandra braced not just for the weight of society’s eyes, but for the possibility that her heart might be on the line—and that, for the first time, she was ready to let it be.
Her dark hair had been swept into an intricate chignon with curling tendrils left artfully loose, and a single diamond pendant glinted at her throat—a quiet declaration that she was no one’s ornament but very much someone worth watching.
She had, to the astonishment of precisely no one, drawn every eye in the room.
Except one. Alexandra scanned the sea of eager faces, but one was conspicuously absent—his absence a glaring silence in a room full of noise. Her stomach dipped, heart tightening, as if it already knew who she was looking for—and feared, just for a breathless moment, that he might not come. Not out of cruelty, but out of doubt. And if he didn’t come, what would that say about everything they’d become?
Magnus Berkshire, Earl of Langley, had yet to arrive.
“He is testing me,” she muttered, though whether with irritation or anticipation she could not quite say. Her pulse fluttered in that maddening way it always did when Magnus surprised her—half dread, half delight.
Louisa, ever her confidante and now frequent co-conspirator, smirked into her punch and elbowed Alexandra lightly. “He’s probably rehearsing his lines. Or bribing the musicians.” Louisa elbowed her again and grinned. “Either way, I expect at least one swoon and two gasps before the night is through.” She paused, brining her fan up to hide her mouth. “More likely he’s preparing for a suitably dramatic entrance. You do love spectacle, my dear.”
