The grand ballroom of the Duke of Waverly’s estate shimmered under the glow of a thousand candles, their light reflecting off gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers. The air buzzed with murmurs of gossip, the rustle of silk gowns, and the occasional tinkling of laughter. It was the height of the season, and Lady Eleanor Montclair had never felt more out of place.

She stood near the towering marble columns, a flute of champagne in her hand, though she had little interest in drinking. Tonight, her father had one goal—to see her and her betrothed who was a man of wealth and title getting along. If Eleanor had learned anything in her twenty years, it was that her desires mattered little in such affairs.

"Smile, my dear," her mother whispered, adjusting the lace at Eleanor’s wrist. "You look like a frightened fawn."

"I am not frightened," Eleanor replied, forcing a demure expression. "Merely uninterested."

Her mother sighed. "That is precisely the problem."

"Is it?" She faced her mother. "You shouldn't expect me to be excited when these arrangements are made, especially without my consent."

"The prince is a good man, from a noble family. I'm sure you two will love each other even more."

Before Eleanor could respond, a hush fell over the crowd. The arrival of someone important. She turned her head, and there he was—the Duke of Ashford.

Sebastian Ashford entered as though he owned the very air in the room. Clad in a sharp black tailcoat, his dark hair curled slightly at his nape, and his eyes—piercing and unreadable—scanned the crowd with disinterest. He was a man of mystery, a duke whispered about in drawing rooms and written of in scandal sheets. Some claimed he had ruined a lady’s reputation and refused to marry her. Others said he had dueled a man to the death in Vienna.

Whatever the truth, Eleanor knew one thing—he was dangerous.

And, to her dismay, he was walking straight toward her.

Eleanor’s breath hitched as the Duke of Ashford closed the distance between them. He moved with an easy grace, a man utterly at home in his own skin, despite the way whispers followed him like shadows.

"Lady Eleanor," he murmured, his voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. "Your father speaks highly of you."

Eleanor’s spine stiffened. Of course, he did. Lord Montclair would speak highly of her to any eligible bachelor with wealth and power, but Duke Sebastian Ashford, she doubted her father wanted anything with him.

She curtsied, measured and proper. "Your Grace. I do hope my father has not oversold my virtues. He has a tendency toward embellishment."

The corner of the duke’s lips quirked, not quite a smile but something close. "Indeed? And what would he have exaggerated?"

Eleanor tilted her head, meeting his gaze head-on. "My obedience, no doubt."

A chuckle escaped him, rich and unexpected. "A rare admission from a lady of the ton. I find myself intrigued."

"That is not my intention, Your Grace," she said coolly, but her pulse betrayed her, quickening as he extended his hand.

"Then humor me, Lady Eleanor," he said. "One dance."

A refusal sat on the tip of her tongue, but before she could utter it, she felt the weight of her mother’s stare, her eyes flashing with anger and passing a message Eleanor knew. Her mother didn't want her dancing with the Duke since she was already betrothed. However, the anticipating eyes of the surrounding onlookers made her rethink, defying her mother wouldn't be bad as to denying the duke now would cause a stir—a dangerous one.

And so, with a careful nod, she placed her hand in his.

The orchestra struck up a waltz, and within moments, she was in his arms, gliding across the polished floor. His touch was firm yet respectful, his hold effortlessly commanding. Eleanor had danced with many gentlemen, but none had ever made her feel as if she were on the edge of something unknown—something thrilling.

"You are not at all what I expected," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"Is that meant as a compliment, Your Grace?"

"It is meant as a warning," he murmured, his gaze dark and unreadable.

A shiver ran through her, though not from fear. She should not be drawn to him. She should not feel this strange pull, this quiet thrill beneath her skin. And yet, she did.

But before she could dwell on it further, a sharp voice cut through the music.

"Your Grace, might I steal Lady Eleanor for a moment?"

Eleanor turned her head just as prince Edmund Carlisle—a suitor her father favored, he stepped forward with a tight smile.

The duke’s grip on her waist flexed, subtle but unmistakable. "I believe the lady is otherwise with me, Carlisle."

Eleanor’s breath caught. That was a rude reply, the prince was close to her and her father liked him. He was her betrothed but why didn't she feel bad for the way the duke spoke to him.