Magnus looked out at the lawn, where Alexandra stood in conversation with Louisa and Genny, animated, laughing, her hands moving expressively. He found himself captivated by the genuine delight in her expression—the brightness of her laughter, the effortless grace of her gestures. It was a glimpse into an unguarded moment, one that made him want to draw closer rather than turn away.
"I don’t mind rumors," he said.
James eyed him. "You like her."
Magnus paused, swirling the brandy in his glass, feeling its warmth seep through his fingertips. He opened his mouth to protest, but the denial died on his lips, replaced by an amused exhale. "Of course I do. She’s utterly maddening."
"And you're smiling like a man who just discovered his favorite tavern serves champagne."
Magnus didn't bother denying it. There was something fascinating in the challenge Alexandra presented—the quickness of her wit, the gleam in her eyes, the boldness with which she matched him stride for stride. It drew him like nothing else had in years, making denial utterly pointless.
Because for the first time in years, a woman had surprised him. His usual flirtations felt predictable, safe—conversations that skimmed the surface, leaving him untouched and bored. Alexandra, however, had reached past his defenses with an ease that unsettled as much as it thrilled him. Not just with her wit or her aim, but with the way she looked at him—as if she saw right through the charm to the man beneath. It stirred something he hadn’t felt in ages—a flicker of loneliness, perhaps, or the dangerous thrill of being truly noticed. He could not remember the last time someone had truly surprised him—and it felt like stepping into sunlight after far too long in shadow.
And now she owed him a dance.
He fully intended to make it count. He imagined the weight of her hand in his, the subtle shift of her breath as he drew her closer, and the spark that would leap between them the moment her eyes met his—just long enough for her to realize she was no longer in control of the game.
Even if she did try to step on his foot.
Chapter 3
The ballroom of the Marquess and Marchioness of Elcombe’s townhouse glittered like a jewel box under the light of dozens of chandeliers. Gold filigree adorned the ivory walls, and clusters of hothouse blooms filled the air with a heady perfume. Ladies fans fluttered like nervous butterflies, and gentlemen adjusted cravats while pretending they weren't already half-dead with boredom.
Alexandra had chosen a gown of deep plum with a daring neckline and matching gloves. It wasn’t just for fashion—it made her feel untouchable, defiant, entirely herself. Though a tiny part of her wondered if the choice was also to prove something. To society, to her sisters... or maybe to a certain vexingly handsome earl.
And then she saw him.
Magnus Berkshire, Earl of Langley, had no right to look that well-formed in a black coat with velvet lapels and a deep green waistcoat that matched the glint in his eyes. No right at all.
He caught sight of her and smiled like a fox spotting an unattended hen. Alexandra, infuriatingly, felt a flutter in her stomach that she immediately tried to squash. She wanted to be unaffected, unmoved—but there he was, all confidence and charm, and her body hadn’t gotten the message. Her pulse quickened irritatingly, her heart thudding sharply with a mix of annoyance and anticipation.
She drew herself up, irritation mingling with an all-too-familiar flutter of expectation. "Don’t say it."
Louisa tilted her head, innocent. "Say what?"
"Whatever nonsense you were about to declare about fate, or flirting, or the poetry of stolen glances."
"Would I be so clichéd?"
"Yes."
Genny leaned in. "You did promise him a dance."
"A promise made under duress."
"So you don’t intend to honor it?"
"Oh, I intend to make him regret ever winning that wager."
"Now that I want to see." Genny grinned.
Alexandra felt a flutter of nervous excitement at the challenge, despite her outward bravado.
Moments later, she was intercepted.
"Lady Alexandra," Lord Langley said with a bow more sincere than mocking. "Might I claim the dance I’ve earned?"
She considered pretending a twisted ankle. Or fainting. Though knowing her luck, he would probably see right through her ruse and enjoy the spectacle far too much.
