Chapter One

“Oh, Catharine, you simply must tell me about the Duchess of Marlborough’s gown,” Margaret said, adjusting her pale blue silk skirts as she stood between her sisters at the edge of the glittering ballroom.

The air in the ballroom was thick with the mingled scents of expensive perfumes, beeswax candles, and the faint smokiness from the enormous fireplace that kept the chill at bay.

Margaret could hear the gentle rustle of silk and satin, the soft murmur of general conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter, and beneath it all, the melodic strains of the orchestra, which had been tucked discreetly into the furthest corner.

She leaned closer to her sister, her voice breathless with admiration. “The pearls alone must have cost a fortune.”

Catharine, resplendent in deep emerald that complemented her newfound softness since marriage, followed Margaret’s gaze across the crowded space. “It’s French, I believe. Though I suspect it costs more than what I used to receive from Father for an entire year’s wardrobe.”

“Trust Catharine to reduce poetry to pounds and shillings,” Eliza teased, nudging Margaret’s arm affectionately.

Catharine gave her sister a look that was half exasperation, half fondness. “Someone in this family must maintain a sense of practicality.”

“Some things never change,” Eliza added with a laugh.

Margaret smiled, though something hollow echoed in her chest. Their banter should have comforted her, but tonight, it only emphasised how much had shifted between them.

The Winter Ball had always been their tradition—the three Fairbourne sisters standing together, observing the ton’s finest display of wealth and matrimonial scheming. But this year felt different. Catharine wore the quiet confidence of a woman well-settled, whilst Eliza possessed the assured bearing of a duchess who’d found unexpected love.

And Margaret? Margaret remained exactly where she’d always been—the youngest, the one still waiting for her life to truly begin.

“I suppose next year I shall still be attending these events, watching everyone else announce their engagements whilst I remain exactly where I am now,” Margaret quipped with forced lightness. “At this rate, I might turn into the bluestocking aunt who spoils everyone else’s children.”

“You’re rather melancholy for someone attending the season’s most anticipated event,” Catharine observed, her tone gentler than it would have been a year ago.

“I’m perfectly content,” Margaret replied, though her fingers worried the pearl bracelet at her wrist. “Simply… taking it all in.”

“Which is precisely what concerns me,” Catharine said. “You have that look about you tonight—as though you’re planning something… inadvisable.”

Before Margaret could respond, a ripple of excitement moved through the crowd near the ballroom’s entrance. Conversations faltered, fans fluttered more rapidly, and several ladies turned to whisper urgently to their companions.

“Oh my…” breathed Lady Pemberton, appearing beside them with eyes brightened by curiosity. “Ladies, do you know who’s just arrived?”

Margaret rose on her toes, craning to see over the sea of elaborate coiffures and gentlemen’s shoulders. “Someone important, judging by the reaction.”

The whispers grew louder, more urgent. “Impossible,” another voice protested. “He never attends these gatherings.”

The crowd parted like theatre curtains, revealing a figure that made Margaret’s breath catch. Tall and impeccably dressed, the gentleman moved through the ballroom with the sort of effortless confidence that came from knowing every eye was upon him.

There was something almost leonine about him—the way he carried himself, the slight smile that suggested he was perfectly aware of the effect his presence had on the assembled company.

“Lord Nathaniel Strickland,” Eliza said quietly, recognition clear in her voice. “The Duke of Ashcombe.”

Margaret’s interest sharpened immediately. “I’ve heard the name whispered, but I’ve never seen him before.”

“Small wonder,” Lady Ashford interjected with barely concealed glee. “He’s been absent from society for months. Some say he was in Paris, others claim he was managing estates in Scotland.”

“He rarely appears at social functions,” Catharine explained, though her tone carried a note of disapproval. “Prefers more… private entertainments, from what I understand.”

“The sort of private entertainments that should not be examined too closely,” Eliza added dryly, though even her eyes lingered on the duke.

Margaret studied him as he made his way through the crowd, accepting bows and curtseys with practiced ease. There was something magnetic about him—the way he moved, the slight smile playing at his lips, the manner in which he seemed to command attention without effort.

“He’s quite handsome,” she said, unable to keep the admiration from her voice.

“Margaret.” Catharine’s tone sharpened. “You mustn’t be taken in by appearances. His reputation—”

“Is hardly worse than Rhys’s was,” Margaret interrupted, glancing towards her brother-in-law, where he stood in conversation with several gentlemen near the card room. “And look how wonderfully that turned out for Eliza.”

“That’s entirely different,” Eliza protested, though colour rose in her cheeks. “Rhys’s reputation was largely gossip and misunderstanding. The Duke of Ashcombe’s interests… well, they’re rather more deliberately cultivated.”

Margaret felt a familiar spark of curiosity. “What sort of interests?”

“The sort that makes any respectable mother lock up her daughters,” Lady Pemberton said with delicious scandal in her voice. “Gaming hells, opera singers, duels at dawn. Why, just last year, there was that business with the French comte’s wife…”

“Lady Pemberton,” Catharine said sharply, “surely such gossip is inappropriate.”

“Oh, my dear, where is the harm in a little truth?” She waved her fan dismissively. “The duke makes no secret of his pursuits. Indeed, one might almost say he takes pride in them.”

Margaret felt her curiosity sharpen further. “But what sort of—”

“The sort that makes him unsuitable for innocent young ladies,” came a new voice, dry with amusement.

Margaret turned to find Julian Ashcroft approaching their group, elegant as always in his perfectly tailored evening wear.

There was something about Julian that had always put Margaret slightly on edge—not unpleasantly, but rather like standing near a fire that gave off heat without showing flame.

“Julian,” she said, taking in his familiar figure—tall and lean, with dark hair that always seemed perfectly tousled, and those penetratingly grey eyes that immediately sought out the duke’s position. “How convenient that you should appear just when the conversation grows interesting.”

“I live to serve,” he replied with a dramatic bow that made Catharine roll her eyes. “Though my timing may be less coincidental than convenient. I noticed you watching our newest arrival with rather more interest than might be… wise.”

“Wise?” Margaret’s chin lifted slightly. “I wasn’t aware that looking required wisdom.”

“Looking, no. But that particular expression…” Julian’s gaze returned to hers, and something flickered there—concern, perhaps, or warning. “That’s the look of a woman contemplating conquest.”

Heat bloomed on Margaret’s cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

Julian moved closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate level. “Tell me, Margaret, what do you see when you look at Strickland?”

Margaret was suddenly aware of Julian’s proximity. She forced herself to focus on the duke across the room. “I see a gentleman of obvious breeding and consequence. A duke, no less.”

“And what else?”

“Someone who seems quite comfortable in society, despite his alleged preference for privacy. Someone who appears to know precisely the effect he has on people.”

Julian’s expression grew more serious. “And you believe you might be the one to catch him?”

“I believe I might be the one to try,” Margaret said, surprising herself with her boldness. “After all, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“From where I stand, dear Margaret, you’ve lived a remarkably sheltered life. The duke… he’s not the sort of man who plays by the rules, you know.”

“Neither was Rhys,” Margaret pointed out again. “And yet he proved capable of great love and devotion. You speak as though you know him personally,” she observed, noting the tension that had crept into Julian’s shoulders. “Have you had business dealings with the duke?”

“I know enough.” Julian’s tone carried a finality that only increased Margaret’s curiosity. “Enough to know that he’s not a man to be trifled with by innocent young ladies seeking romantic adventures.”

“That’s the second time tonight you’ve called me innocent!” Margaret said, the word stinging more than she cared to admit. “I’m five-and-twenty, Julian. Hardly some fresh-faced girl just out of the schoolroom.”

“Age and innocence aren’t mutually exclusive,” he said softly. “And there’s nothing wrong with innocence, Margaret. It’s simply… incompatible with men like Strickland.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly what makes him so intriguing,” Margaret replied, her chin lifting with a hint of defiance. “I find myself growing tired of being surrounded by stuffy, predictable gentlemen who treat me like I’m made from spun glass.”

She glanced once more at the duke, noting the way he leaned slightly towards the lady he was speaking with—close enough to be intimate, not quite close enough to be improper.

“Maybe it’s time I discovered what lies beyond the boundaries of propriety.”

Julian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “And you believe the Duke of Ashcombe is the man to show you?”

“I believe he’s the most intriguing man in this ballroom,” Margaret replied, her voice growing stronger with conviction.

“Margaret, listen to me.” Julian’s hand moved as though he might dare to touch her arm, then stopped. “Some risks aren’t worth the potential consequences. And some men are exactly what they appear to be, not what we might hope them to become.”

“No, Julian.” She turned to face him fully, lowering her voice as she noticed Eliza glancing in their direction with obvious curiosity. “I appreciate your concern, truly I do. But I’m not a child anymore, and I’m not content to remain safely tucked away whilst life passes me by.”

Julian studied her face for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. “And what if I told you that your instincts about people have been sheltered by kindness? That the world contains cruelties you’ve been fortunate enough to never encounter?”

“Then I’d say you underestimate me entirely!” Margaret felt her pulse quicken—not with fear but with excitement. “Perhaps it’s time I trusted my own judgement rather than everyone else’s warnings.”

The orchestra struck up a new melody, and couples began forming for the next dance. Margaret watched as the duke bowed elegantly to a lady in rose silk, leading her onto the floor with practiced grace.

“He dances well.”

“He does many things well,” Julian replied grimly. “That’s rather the problem.”

Something in his tone made her heart skip a beat, though she couldn’t quite understand why.

“What if I don’t want to be sunshine and laughter forever?” she asked quietly. “What if I want to be something more… complex, more interesting?”

“You’re already interesting,” Julian said, and for a moment, his voice carried a note of something deeper than mere concern. “You’re already enough, Margaret. You don’t need to transform yourself to win some man’s attention.”

“Even if that man is a duke?”

“Especially if that man is a duke like Strickland.”

Margaret felt her resolve strengthening. Julian’s warnings, her sisters’ concerns, the very danger they seemed to perceive—it all only made the Duke of Ashcombe more intriguing.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, her voice carrying new determination. “But I believe I’m quite capable of managing my own affairs.”

Julian’s expression darkened. “Margaret—”

“The next dance is beginning shortly,” she interrupted, watching as new couples took their positions. “I believe I shall position myself where His Grace might notice me when the dance concludes.”

She moved away from their group before Julian could respond, her heart racing with excitement and nerves. Behind her, she heard Eliza’s concerned whisper and Catharine’s sharper response, but she didn’t turn back.

Margaret positioned herself where she might catch his eye when the music ended, her pulse thrumming wildly with anticipation.

She was tired of being the protected one. The innocent one. The one who watched on while others lived. Tonight, she would begin to change that.

The dance ended, and the Duke of Ashcombe’s eyes met hers across the crowded floor. His smile was slow, knowing, and entirely too confident.

Margaret smiled back, her heart hammering against her ribs.

The Duke of Ashcombe was about to discover that the youngest Fairbourne sister was far more interesting than anyone could ever have imagined.

Chapter Two

“Good God, Julian, you’re staring at her like she’s a puzzle you can’t solve,” Rhys said, appearing at his cousin’s elbow with the quiet stealth that had once made him so effective on the battlefield.

Julian lifted his brandy glass to his lips—he’d abandoned the champagne in favour of something stronger—not bothering to deny the observation. From his position at the edge of the ballroom, he had an excellent view of Margaret Fairbourne making an absolute spectacle of herself in her attempts to catch Nathaniel Strickland’s attention.

“She’s… determined,” Julian said finally, watching as Margaret positioned herself directly in Strickland’s line of sight, her golden curls catching the ballroom’s light like spun sunshine, her smile so bright it could have lit the chandeliers.

“She’s besotted,” Rhys corrected grimly. “With a man who would devour her whole and leave nothing but broken pieces.”

Julian’s grip tightened on his glass. Margaret was currently attempting what he assumed was meant to be a sultry laugh—the sort he’d observed countless sophisticated women deploy to great effect. From Margaret, it sounded forced, almost desperate. Strickland glanced her way briefly, offered a polite nod, then immediately turned back to Lady Pemberton, whose own laugh was a symphony of feminine wiles.

“She’s not very good at it,” Julian murmured, unable to keep the note of reluctant affection from his voice.

“At what? Seduction?” Rhys’s tone sharpened. “Thank God for that. The very last thing needed is Margaret developing such… skills.”

Julian watched as Margaret attempted to fan herself with what she probably thought was elegant grace, nearly dropping the delicate ivory accessory in the process. She caught it just in time, her cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment.

“Rather like watching a kitten attempt to stalk a lion, if you will.”

“Which is precisely why you need to put whatever foolish notion you seem to be entertaining out of your mind,” Rhys said, his voice dropping to a level that demanded attention. “Margaret is not some sophisticated widow looking for amusement, Julian. She’s too romantic, too bloody innocent for a man like you.”

Julian turned to face him fully, noting the protective tension in Rhys’s stance. “A man like me?”

“You know precisely what I mean.” Rhys’s grey eyes had turned to steel. “You’re brilliant, charming, and utterly without scruples when it comes to getting what you want.”

“I confess, I fail to see the particular problem with such refreshing honesty.”

“The problem is that Margaret wouldn’t believe you if you etched your intentions across your forehead,” Rhys said bluntly. “She’d convince herself that she could change you, that her love would be enough to transform you into the romantic hero she’s been dreaming about since she was old enough to read novels.”

Julian felt something twist in his chest—an uncomfortable recognition of truth. “I’m not entirely without feeling, Rhys.”

“No, but you’re entirely without a title, without prospects beyond your legal work, and without the sort of romantic nature that would make Margaret truly happy.” Rhys’s voice gentled slightly. “She needs someone who can love her the way she deserves to be loved—completely, devotedly, without reservation. Can you honestly tell me you’re capable of that?”

Julian’s gaze drifted back to Margaret, who was now attempting to position herself near the refreshment table where Strickland was accepting a glass of champagne. She moved with the sort of obvious purpose that made Julian wince.

“She’s too breakable,” he said quietly, the words tasting like ash. “Too good for the likes of me.”

“Exactly.” Rhys clapped him on the shoulder. “So whatever fascination you’re developing, halt it in its tracks now. For both your sakes.”

Julian nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on Margaret. As they watched, she approached Strickland with a bright smile, clearly intending to engage him in conversation. The duke turned towards her with the sort of polite attention he might give to any persistent debutante, but Julian could see the calculation in his eyes, the way he assessed her youth, her obvious infatuation, her vulnerability.

“He’s going to destroy her,” Julian said, his voice harsh with sudden anger.

“Not if she comes to her senses first,” Rhys replied.

But Julian could see that Margaret had no intention whatsoever of coming to her senses. She was leaning slightly towards Strickland, her expression animated, her gestures a touch too enthusiastic. Whatever she was saying, it was clearly intended to impress, but Strickland’s attention kept drifting to other guests, other conversations.

“She’s making a spectacle of herself,” Julian muttered.

“She’s being young and foolish,” Rhys corrected. “It’s hardly a crime.”

Across the ballroom, Margaret’s smile faltered slightly as Strickland excused himself to greet another guest. Julian watched her shoulders drop, saw the way her bright expression dimmed for just a moment before she rallied, turning to engage Lady Cavendish in conversation with determined cheerfulness.

“I should go,” Rhys said, glancing towards Eliza, who was holding court with several other young matrons. “My duchess is giving me looks that suggest I’m neglecting my social duties.”

“Of course,” Julian said absently, his attention still fixed firmly on Margaret.

As Rhys walked away, Julian remained at his post, his brandy growing warm in his hand. He told himself he was merely observing an entertaining social spectacle, but the truth of the matter was far more complicated.

His jaw tightened as he watched Strickland accept the obvious adoration of yet another young lady with the sort of casual arrogance that made Julian’s teeth ache. Men like this had never had to work for anything.

The injustice of it all settled in his chest like a boulder.

Later, Julian found Margaret sitting alone in a small alcove near the ballroom’s edge, her bright smile finally abandoned in favour of obvious frustration. Her golden curls had lost some of their careful arrangement, and her cheeks were flushed with what looked like a combination of exertion and embarrassment.

“Rough evening?” he asked, settling into the chair beside her without invitation.

Margaret’s head snapped up, her blue eyes flashing with irritation. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

“Of course you are,” Julian said smoothly. “That’s why you’re hiding in an alcove instead of dancing with your duke.”

“I’m not hiding,” Margaret said, though her voice lacked conviction. “I’m simply… taking a moment to rest.”

Julian studied her face—the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her hands were clenched in her lap, the slight tremor in her voice that suggested she was closer to tears than she wanted to admit.

“You’re utterly clumsy at seduction,” he said conversationally.

Margaret’s eyes widened, colour flooding her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Julian leaned back in his chair, affecting a casual pose that belied the strange tension thrumming through him. “You’re about as subtle as a peacock in a chicken coop. Every person in this ballroom can see exactly what you’re trying to do.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Margaret said stiffly.

“Don’t you?” Julian’s voice carried a note of gentle mockery. “The strategic positioning near the refreshment table? The animated conversations with Lady Cavendish designed to catch his attention? The way you’ve been trailing after him around the ballroom like a lovesick puppy?”

Margaret shot to her feet, her skirts rustling with indignation. “How dare you—”

“I dare because someone needs to tell you the truth,” Julian interrupted, rising to face her.

“And I suppose you consider yourself an expert on such matters?”

“I consider myself a man who understands what draws another man’s attention,” Julian said, his voice dropping to a more intimate level. “I know what makes a woman unforgettable. What makes her mysterious enough to pursue rather than simply available enough to ignore.”

Margaret’s angry flush deepened. “You’re being deliberately cruel.”

“I’m being honest,” Julian corrected. “The question is whether you want to continue flailing about, making a fool of yourself, or whether you’d prefer to learn how to succeed.”

For a long moment, Margaret stared at him, her expression cycling through hurt, anger, and something that might have been curiosity.

“What exactly are you proposing?” she asked finally, her voice carefully controlled.

Julian felt his pulse quicken. He hadn’t planned this conversation, hadn’t intended to make such an offer. But watching Margaret’s clumsy attempts at flirting, seeing her obvious frustration growing into desperation—all of it had stirred something in him that he couldn’t quite name.

“I’m suggesting that if you truly want to win the Duke of Ashcombe’s heart, you need to learn the art of subtle manipulation,” he said quietly. “The difference between being pursued and being the pursuer.”

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “And you… Could teach me these things?”

“I would.”

“Why?”

It was a fair question, and one Julian wasn’t entirely sure he could answer honestly.

“Because,” he said finally, “I dislike seeing someone I care about fail when success is entirely within reach.”

Margaret studied his face for a long moment, clearly trying to decipher his motives. “You’re insane,” she said finally.

Julian smiled, recognising the curiosity beneath her scepticism. “Perhaps. But I’m also very good at what I do.”

“And what exactly do you do, Julian?”

“I make people want things they didn’t know they needed,” he said simply.

Margaret’s breath caught slightly, and Julian saw the exact moment her resolve wavered. She wanted to say yes—he could see it in her eyes, in the way her lips parted slightly, in the sudden tension in her shoulders.

“I…” she began, then stopped, clearly struggling with herself.

Julian moved closer. “The choice is yours, dear Margaret. You can continue as you are, hoping that persistence will eventually pay off, or you can let me show you how to make the duke desperate to win your attention.”

“This is madness,” Margaret whispered.

“The best things usually are,” Julian replied, his voice soft with promise.

For a moment, he thought she might accept. He could see the war playing out across her expressive face—propriety battling with curiosity, caution wrestling with desire. But then she stepped back, her chin lifting with that familiar stubborn pride.

“You’ve lost your senses entirely,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Julian smiled, recognising defeat as merely a tactical retreat. “Perhaps I have.”

He turned to leave, then paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He walked away without another word, leaving her standing in the alcove with her thoughts and her obvious temptation.

Julian smiled to himself as he made his way back towards the refreshment table. He’d planted the seed. Now he needs only to wait to see if it will take root in Margaret’s curious, romantic heart.

The game, he thought with a surge of anticipation, is about to become infinitely more interesting.