Without thinking, I gathered my skirts and followed after him.
The night air struck like a slap.
Cool, damp, alive with the scent of crushed roses and the distinct hint of autumn. I half-stumbled down the stone steps into the garden, one hand clutching the balustrade for balance as the world rocked softly beneath me. The music still reached me from inside, muffled now, a heartbeat I couldn’t escape.
He had to be here. He had to be.
I pushed forward through the haze, eyes searching the shadows between the hedgerows and marble statues. Each movement sent the ground tilting faintly beneath my feet. My shoes slid on the dew-slick grass. The world shimmered and lamplight blurred to streaks of hazy gold.
“Sylum?” I breathed into the dark.
No answer. Only the sigh of the wind and the rustle of ivy. My pulse hammered against my throat, dangerously uneven.
I caught the glint of a mask ahead and moved toward it, only to stop short, heat flooding my face.
A man and woman tangled together against the ivy wall, locked in a feverish embrace. One of her breasts spilled free from her gown, heavy and pale in the moonlight as the man bent to take it in his mouth. His hand plunged beneath her skirts and she moaned softly, her pleasure vibrating through the quiet like a forbidden secret.
Heat prickled my skin. Shame or perhaps envy twisted in my stomach with equal cruelty.
I turned and fled, the world spinning again, branches clutching at my sleeves as I ran. I didn’t stop until I found a stone bench half-hidden behind a hedge of sleeping roses. I collapsed onto it, trembling, pressing my fingers to my temples.
I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breathing.
That was when the memory came. Unbidden. Unforgiving.
The first time I’d met Sylum, I had been nineteen and miserable, standing beside a refreshment table at Lady Crawford’s ball.
I had been there because it was expected, because even families ruined by scandal must still pretend at grace.
My mother’s illness had been no secret. Society had a long memory for disgrace and I was tolerated, not welcomed. Noticed, but never invited to linger. Most evenings, I hovered at the edges of conversation, smiling when required, invisible when not.
That night, a group of ladies—beautiful, cruel, and bored—had decided to make sport of me. They’d sent one of their companions, a young man named Edmund Harcourt, to ask me to dance. My heart had fluttered like a fool’s when he smiled.
We’d danced once before he’d suggested a turn about the garden. I’d followed him, naïve and hopeful.
The others were waiting.
They hid among the hedges, giggling behind gloved hands. When the moment was right, one girl—pale as death, her gown ghost-white—leapt out with a shriek, brandishing what I thought was a knife. I screamed, stumbling back as their laughter echoed through the night.
“Beware, Miss Benette,” she had mocked. “Your mother’s come back for you!”
Their laughter had been crueler than any blade. I had run blindly, tears streaking my face, my only thought to escape.
Then, he found me.
Sylum.
He’d been standing near the terrace, watching the entire thing. His expression, fury restrained by breeding, made the others scatter like frightened birds. Then he’d come to me.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said softly. “That was cruel.”
I remember the trembling in my voice. “It was only a jest.”
“No,” he’d replied, his tone quiet but certain. “That was malice.”
He’d offered me his handkerchief, monogrammed and folded neatly. I could still feel the weight of it in my hand even now. He’d been careful not to startle me, his voice gentle, the kind of gentleness that becomes a promise.
“Walk with me?” he’d asked.
