The sun slipped away slowly, as if reluctant to leave her to the night, burnishing the marble ground in her dressing chamber a soft pink. It bled into the horizon like a wound being sealed with gold, and in its dying light, the city glittered with the feverish polish of celebration. The Summer Gala had always been a performance—a stage for alliances and ambitions masquerading as laughter—but tonight, it felt more like a battlefield.
Seraphina stood before the mirror in her bedchamber, motionless save for the gentle rhythm of her breath. Around her, maids darted like silken shadows, whispering in tones that trembled between awe and nervousness. The air was scented with rosewater and warm wax, the glow of a dozen candles softening the marble walls into something almost forgiving.
Elara fastened the final hook of her corset with trembling fingers. "Miss," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the rustle of fabric, "if you keep standing that still, I'll think you've turned to stone."
Seraphina smiled faintly, eyes never leaving her reflection. She replied softly, "Perhaps that is not so terrible."
The mirror threw her back a vision she did not entirely recognize. The gown she had chosen—a deep midnight purple silk threaded with golden filigree—drank the light and gave it back in trembling shards. The bodice swept low, modest in shape but merciless in effect; each line of fabric a deliberate choice, armor made from elegance. Her hair had been drawn up in soft curls, a few rebellious tendrils brushing her collarbones like ghosted promises.
She had chosen to leave them that way. Perfection was something her mother demanded, but control was hers to define now. When Elara moved to place the Araminta crest pin—a rose in argent and garnet—on the shoulder of her gown, Seraphina stopped her. "No crest tonight."
The maid froze. "But, Miss… the Beaumonts—"
"Will survive a minor scandal." Seraphina's tone was quiet but sharp enough to slice through protest. "I attend as myself today not as anyone's pawn."
Elara hesitated only a moment before lowering her gaze. "As you wish."
When the last ribbon was tied and the last curl set, the room fell still. Outside, the faint hum of carriages drifted through the open terrace, mingling with the low trill of violins from distant streets. The capital was awake, dressed in gold and laughter, unaware—or perhaps unwilling to see—the dark tension simmering beneath its beauty.
"The carriages are already leaving for the Beaumont estate, miss," she said softly. "Your brother will expect you to arrive before the second bell."
Seraphina nodded absently, watching her reflection in the mirror.
The gown chosen for this night—her first reintroduction to courtly society since the signing of the Celosia-Araminta accord—was a deliberate statement: deep indigo purple, like a peacock's shadow, cut clean through the waist and flowing down in a spill of silk. The color of composure. Of control. Of secrets buried beneath moss and memory. "Do you think it's too dark?" she murmured.
Elara looked up, startled. "Too dark, miss? Oh no. You look—" she hesitated, searching for a word that might safely bridge admiration and apprehension— "you look as if nothing could ever touch you."
Seraphina smiled faintly at that. "Then it's perfect."Her hands, gloved in fine lace, were steady as she reached for the small velvet box that sat beside her brush set. Inside, the pearls gleamed softly in their cushioned bed—small, perfectly round, and achingly familiar.
A gift from him. James. Even the name stirred something in her chest that she wished she could forget.
In her first life, she had worn those pearls at the last Gala they attended together. The night before he left for the northern front, she had kissed him under the archway of the moonlit terrace and promised she would wait. A promise she had broken when her mother's schemes and her brother's ambition had turned her into an unwilling weapon of betrayal.
She had learned of his death a year later—reported on a rain-soaked afternoon, his battalion overrun and her death making it too late to atone. And yet here she was, alive again. With the same pearls glimmering in her hand, the same heart trembling between fate and defiance.
"Elara," she said quietly. "Fasten these for me."
The maid obeyed, fingers deft but trembling. The pearls settled against her throat, cold at first, then warming slowly against her skin.
When Elara stepped back, Seraphina met her own gaze in the mirror.
"I will not lose him again," she whispered—to herself, to the reflection that knew too much. "Not like before."
Seraphina rose, gathering the folds of her gown. The scent of gardenia oil clung to her wrists, the faint trace of ink still lingering beneath her nails from the letter she'd written earlier that week—her acceptance of the Marquess's correspondence.
Seraphina turned from the mirror, her skirts whispering across the rug like waves retreating from shore. "Elara," she said softly, "bring the letter." The maid fetched it from the small writing desk—James Celosia's reply. The parchment had been folded so many times its edges had grown soft. Seraphina took it in both hands, her thumb brushing the faint indentation left by his signature. His words were measured, impersonal, but the mere act of his acknowledgment had been enough to set her heart to restlessness.
She read the single added line again, the one she had not dared show anyone: The roses in Araminta seem to have bloomed early this year.
The meaning was hidden, if there was any at all. Perhaps it was only a polite observation. Perhaps it was a warning. Or perhaps, a man who had once looked at her as if she were a puzzle meant to be solved had chosen to write something he could not say aloud. Seraphina folded the letter once more and slipped it into the small pocket sewn into the inside of her gown. She had learned long ago that even the smallest secrets deserved protection.
Elara cleared her throat softly. "The carriage is waiting, Miss."
Seraphina took one last look in the mirror—at the woman who stared back. She did not see the girl who had trembled on the marble staircase years ago, nor the condemned traitor who had died in chains. She saw the quiet, terrible strength of someone who had once burned and now refused to be ash.
❀
The carriage rattled through the cobblestone streets, the rhythmic clatter of wheels a counterpoint to the faint hum of the city's laughter. Lanterns lined the avenues, dripping gold onto polished marble façades. The world outside was all opulence—perfumed gardens, polished carriages, ladies in silks that glimmered like caught fireflies—but inside, the air was taut with her heartbeat.
Seraphina's gloved hands rested in her lap, fingers tracing the hem of her gown. The city blurred by like a memory she couldn't quite trust. Each turn of the wheels brought her closer to the Beaumont estate, to the glittering hall where James Celosia would stand again beneath chandeliers, five years before the day she had watched him fall.
Her pulse betrayed her calm facade.
She had told herself she would be ready. That she would not tremble. That she would not let the sight of him—the man who had once condemned her, the man she had once loved beyond reason—unmake her again. But as the carriage crested the hill, the estate came into view, and her breath caught.
The Beaumont manor was alive with light, each window blazing gold, the air above it shimmering with music and laughter. Banners of white and indigo fluttered in the warm night wind. A long line of carriages curved toward the entrance, where liveried servants guided nobles up the marble steps. The air was thick with perfume, with ambition.
The Araminta carriages rolled through the Beaumont gates in perfect formation — one for the household, one for appearance. The horses' bridles shone like coins in the lanternlight, the wheels humming over gravel that had been sprinkled with powdered quartz to glitter under torchfire.
Inside the first carriage, Seraphina sat opposite her mother poised within the first carriage, the hem of her indigo silk gown spilling like water over the seat. Beside her, her mother's perfume — violet and musk — clung thick as judgment.
Lady Araminta's gown, pale gold and encrusted with sequins, shimmered each time the wheels jolted over the road — as if she meant to outshine even the chandeliers. Across from them, Garrick lounged in his military dress, the Araminta colors gleaming at his collar, a glass of something sharp balanced carelessly between two fingers.
The silence stretched until her mother broke it. Her mother's fan snapped open, slicing through the air. "Do stop fidgeting, Seraphina. One would think you've never attended a gala before."
"I thought the goal was to appear lifelike," Seraphina murmured, eyes on the window.
Her mother's fan stilled. "Do not test me tonight. The Beaumonts have gone to considerable trouble to host this event, and Lord Celosia will be watching. He will expect grace, gratitude, and obedience so smile, my dear,." Lady Araminta murmured. "People are less inclined to whisper when you look pleased to be here."
Seraphina's gaze stayed fixed on the passing iron gates. "Do they whisper about me?"
Her brother snorted. "Of course they do. They're nobles; they'd whisper about a shadow if it moved." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "You know what they'll say tonight, though — that House Araminta is desperate. That you're being paraded for a marriage contract."
Seraphina turned to him slowly. "What would you call it?"
"Strategy." He smiled thinly. "The Celosia alliance means land, protection, and a seat closer to the Emperor's council. Don't ruin it with your dramatics."
Her mother's fan snapped open, a measured flutter. "Enough, Garrick. Your sister understands her duty." The carriage slowed as they joined the queue before the marble steps. Lady Araminta adjusted her diamonds in the mirror and leaned closer to her daughter, her voice turning soft and lethal. "Smile tonight. Be charming. Be everything I raised you to be. You will not embarrass this family." Seraphina turned away before her mother could hiss another reprimand.
The carriage jolted to a halt. A servant opened the door; warm air, heavy with music and candle wax, spilled inside. The courtyard was alive with color and movement, the fountain's water dyed gold by torchlight, guests spilling up the marble steps like ribbons.
Infront her, Garrick leaned forward, his voice low enough for only Seraphina to hear. "Careful tonight, sister. Celosia men are not easily managed. You might find the beast in his legend true."
Through the glass window, she could see the crowd: lords and ladies stepping into the blaze of chandeliers, laughter too bright to be sincere. And there—at the top of the stairs—stood a figure dressed in black and silver, a presence that seemed to command even the air around him. Her breath left her in a single, sharp exhale.
James Celosia.
Even from this distance, she recognized the stillness of him—the deliberate poise that set him apart from every other man. He stood slightly apart from the gathering throng, hands clasped behind his back, his violet gaze sweeping the crowd with the same unyielding calm that had once unsettled armies.
The lamplight caught on the polished edge of his black uniform coat, the faint scar on his invisible from this distance. His hair, darker now, was neatly combed, though a single errant strand fell across his brow in quiet rebellion. He had not changed as much as memory had claimed. If anything, time had carved him sharper.
Her fingers curled tightly around her skirts.
He should not have been here yet. The Marquess was expected to arrive late, to make an entrance befitting his rank. That he stood there already, surveying the arrivals, meant he was hunting something—or someone.
"Elara," she murmured, voice faint as she grasped the hand of her maid cowering in the corner away from her brother. "When the door opens, you will walk ahead of me."
The maid blinked in surprise. "Miss?"
"I will follow only when I am ready."
The carriage came to a stop. The footman opened the door, bowing low. Cool night air rushed in, carrying with it the perfume of roses and candlelight. Garrick bounced down and her mother in her majestic skirts took his assistance. As Garrick rested their mother's arm in the crook of his elbow, he turned back once to glance at her with a mix of warning and a hint of concern. Elara hopped out of the carriage, her back cutting off Seraphina's vision to Marquess Celosia who appeared to still be searching for something. Or someone.
Seraphina closed her eyes, drew one long, steady breath, and stepped down, her hand gloved and poised, every movement rehearsed and measured. . The marble beneath her feet gleamed, cold and merciless under the stars. The sound of her heels against stone was swallowed by the swell of music from within the manor. Around her, nobles turned to glance—House Araminta's daughter had arrived without her family's escort, a breach of decorum so daring it left whispers in her wake.
"Lady Araminta."
"Returned at last…"
"Last social season, Lady Alexandra said…"
"Have you heard? The Celosia contract's been reinstated and the engagement…"
She heard it all, the sharp-edged curiosity behind every word, but her expression remained serene. Gossip had always been the first weapon of the capital, and she had long ago learned that silence could be sharper than scandal. Let them whisper. Her gaze lifted to the top of the stairs. For a moment, violet met green across a sea of silk and sound. It was only a heartbeat—no more—but the world stilled before an older gentleman clapped Marquess Celosia on the back and beckoned him towards a small group of portly men gathered to the side of the entryway.
She and her family had barely reached the top of the steps when a familiar voice called her name.
"Seraphina! Saints above, you did come."
Lady Rothwell swept toward her in a flurry of rose tulle and wit, her hair crowned with pearls that trembled as she moved. The two embraced, the first genuine warmth Seraphina had felt all evening.
"Alexandra," she breathed. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me to the wolves."
"Never," Alexandra said, looping an arm through hers. "I only had to endure my mother's lecture on posture before escaping. And, saints, you look devastating — your mother must be beside herself."
"She's standing right there," Seraphina murmured, lips curving.
Alexandra shot a sidelong glance at Lady Araminta, who was already engaged in a performance of polite greetings with the Duke of Harrow, her smile honed to a blade.
"Ah," Alexandra whispered. "Then I shall pray for your survival."
"Please do."
❀
The ballroom was a universe of fabrics and music. Crystal chandeliers spilled light like molten gold over polished floors, reflecting in a thousand jeweled eyes. Laughter rose and fell like the tide, gilded and empty, as courtiers drifted in constellations of silk and lace. Seraphina paused at the threshold, her breath shallow against the crush of perfume and warmth as Alexandra fussed over her dress.
For a heartbeat she saw not the celebration before her but the ghosts of another Gala—the last one she had attended before her death. That night had smelled of the same perfume, the same wine. She remembered the weight of a hand at her back, the whisper of vows that had never been kept, the way she had smiled even as her world burned behind her eyes.
This time, she told herself, you are not the same woman.
Her steps were measured as she descended the marble staircase with Lady Alexandra, her mother and brother long disappearing into their respective factions. Heads turned, voices faltered. Some recognized her; others only knew the reputation—Miss Seraphina Araminta, daughter of the dead Duke, known for her beauty, her silence, and the scandal that always seemed to cling like perfume. At the foot of the stairs, a herald announced her name. The sound of it echoed, delicate and sharp, and for a moment the entire hall seemed to breathe her in.
They moved together into the ballroom, Alexandra whispering acerbic observations about the guests, drawing quiet laughter from Seraphina — real laughter, the kind she hadn't managed since waking into this second life. For a moment, she almost forgot what awaited her here. Almost. Like a torch in the night at the far end of the room above the rising swell of cream marble stairs, the herald's voice rang out: "Marquess James Celosia, The Marquess of Celosia and Commander of Valenfort."
Seraphina's pulse faltered.
❀
Marquess James Celosia stood beneath the massive chandelier, a dark figure cut clean from the chaos.
He was precisely as she remembered: still, composed, commanding. Yet the years—and death—had etched subtleties she had not known how to name. His shoulders bore the faint stoop of one who had carried too much armor for too long. His jaw was sharper, his eyes colder. Violet, still, but not the soft lilac of youth; now, they were tempered steel, polished to reflect nothing.
The last time she had seen him alive, he had been fastening his gauntlets before mounting his horse. She had touched his sleeve and told him not to die. He had smiled—one of his rare, unguarded smiles—and said, "Then I suppose I have no choice."
Then he had ridden away. She had not known it would be the last time she saw his back facing her.
Now, standing beneath the opulence of the chandeliers, she could almost feel the same echo of wind that had carried his scent of steel and rain that morning. But he was not a ghost. Not this time. This time, she would not let him slip away.
❀
Seraphina's fingers curled slightly around her fan as his name reverberated throughout the hall, guest stilling as a fewer less knowledgeable nobles murmured:
"The beast of the battlefield is here…"
"I heard he killed…"
"Isn't he chained to that devastated Araminta…"
"His family...illegitimate...brother...disowned..."
He paused atop the sea-foam staircase, black shoulders cutting through the crowd like a ship at night, turning his neck once again as if on a hunt. His vision swept the ballroom floor before he spotted her. Their eyes met fully this time, not the stolen glance of the courtyard, but something direct and inescapable. He inclined his head slightly, polite, controlled. Yet beneath that perfect composure was something alive—a flicker, brief as the flare of a match. His gaze was unflinching.
The music swelled in the ballroom, a lively minuet that pulled the dancers into its rhythm, dispersing the crowd that had gathered around the Marquess as he finished descending. Seraphina allowed herself a moment to watch the patterns, noting the alliances in the subtle positioning of the guests, the whispered cues passed between men and women alike.
Everything had meaning, and nothing escaped her notice. Even from a distance, she could see who sought influence, who concealed resentment, and who plotted their ascent. Each movement, each gesture, was a potential piece in the game she was only beginning to play.
A subtle cough drew her attention, and she found herself face-to-face with Earl Beauchamp, a minor noble whose influence had grown through careful observation and whispered threats. "Miss Seraphina," he said, bowing slightly, reaching out to kiss her hand. "Your presence graces this hall like a jewel in moonlight."
She inclined her head, her smile polished and neutral, grimacing as he allowed his lips to linger too long as if to stain her glove with rumors. "Earl Beauchamp, your praise flatters me." She noted the way he fidgeted with his sleeve, the way his eyes flicked toward James before darting back to her. Curiosity. Fear. Ambition. Useful. The eyes of a man who coveted what would be anothers. She would remember this.
As the evening progressed, she maneuvered through conversations with measured grace, offering compliments and listening intently, allowing no word, no gesture, no nuance to escape her. Courtiers approached with inquiries, whispers, and subtle provocations, all of which she cataloged silently, filing away like arrows in a quiver. She noticed who deferred to James, who sought to challenge him, who lingered near, waiting for a moment of distraction to strike. And through it all, she kept her attention tethered to James, measuring, calculating, anticipating.
A subtle shift occurred as the night wore on—the Marquess made a deliberate, almost imperceptible movement that suggested a change in strategy, a new threat or opportunity that would affect them both. Eventually, the orchestra's last notes drifted into silence, and the courtiers began to disperse toward smaller salons, gardens, and private chambers. Seraphina allowed herself to drift closer to James, careful not to seem deliberate. Her heart beat with the thrill of proximity, tempered by the knowledge of how delicate the balance between desire and strategy could be.
Through the golden haze of candles and the flamboyance of the newest fashion spinning across the dance hall like unkept flowers, she spotted him. James stood near the edge of the dance floor, tall, unyielding, his violet eyes catching the light like steel.
He spoke to the Marquess of Carrington, hands clasped behind his back, every inch of him poised in a way that made others feel smaller by proximity alone. He had no knowledge of their shared past in this life—no awareness of the betrayal that had defined her first life's final moments—but Seraphina carried it like a shadow between them. A dangerous edge she would wield quietly, without mercy.
Her steps were light, careful, as she navigated the clusters of nobles. Each smile, each tilt of a head, each practiced courtesy was cataloged in her mind. Alliances, rivalries, whispers of ambition—every gesture had meaning. And every glance in James's direction demanded a delicate counterbalance. Too much attention, and she risked revealing herself; too little, and she lost the opportunity to observe his strategy firsthand.
Then, at the edge of the ballroom, their eyes met. Not a glance, not a fleeting recognition—an understanding that, despite the formalities, despite the countless layers of politeness and pretense, they were connected in ways no one else could comprehend. He did not know the history they shared—or the devastation she had once wrought—but she did. And that knowledge gave her power, dangerous, intoxicating, and precise. Every noble turned to watch him move through the crowd, bowing, greeting, exchanging the proper words as he circulated the room. Yet his steps—measured, deliberate—drew him nearer to her.
When he reached her, he inclined his head with polite detachment as he stiffly bowed to her.
"Miss Araminta. Lady Rothwell."
She curtsied in return, Alexandra nodding her head before slyly slipping into another circle of women asking about her recent suitor. Seraphina glanced up to discrete drink in his face like a mirage. She forced her hands to remain still as she held her dress, her expression serene.
"Marquess Celosia."
The sound of his voice after so many years or lifetimes nearly undid her composure, enough to make his slight flinch at the term Marquess unnoticeable. She had dreamed of it, replayed it, mourned it. Now it was real, and she had to remind herself that for him, this was the first time.
"I believe we are to be allies, of a sort," he said.
"Or adversaries, depending on who you ask."
That earned the smallest quirk of his mouth. "I prefer allies. Less paperwork."
She smiled, faintly, but her pulse was a drum beneath the pearls at her throat. His brow twitched briefly and his violet eyes looked at her the way soldiers look at unfamiliar terrain—calm, assessing, searching for hidden traps. She wondered what he saw.
A waltz was beginning. The first of the night and every pair of eyes in the room turned to them. The Marquess of Celosia had never danced outside of a state duty or function. After a pause, he offered his hand, his tone clipped and formal. "May I have your first dance Miss Araminata?
She hesitated, though not from fear. For him to ask her now, regardless of their potential engagement, was to release the caged tongues of high society. In her first life, this very waltz had been the first time they'd danced. She remembered how the moment had sparked something between them—cautious admiration, then affection, then the long, slow tumble into love.
She placed her gloved hand in his, feeling his callouses through the lace of her gloves. "Of course, Marquess."
Her name in his voice nearly undid her.
James's hold was formal, correct, the measured distance of a man trained to keep control even in intimacy as he led her to the dance floor. Yet beneath the discipline she could feel the coiled readiness of the soldier he'd become — every motion efficient, every breath accounted for. No warmth, no inflection, only the controlled timbre of authority. The music carried them through the slow spin of the waltz. Her skirts whispered against his boots; the air between them was charged with the scent of wax and cedar and something sharp, metallic.
For a heartbeat, she let herself imagine that this was the same dance — the one from years ago, from a life that had ended in blood and ash. But then she remembered the letter she had burned, the grave she had wept over, until he spoke again.
"You are quieter than your letter promised," he said after a moment as he guided her through a step. She turned in answer, her carefully styled locks briefly concealing her face. "You are more polite than your legend allows." A flicker of amusement ghosted across his lips. "Then we are both victims of exaggeration." She smiled faintly, though her heart thundered. "Perhaps." Before he could respond further, a sudden commotion broke the rhythm of the dance.
A servant stumbled through the edge of the floor, a tray crashing against marble. Guests gasped as glass shattered, wine spreading like blood across the tiles. A pair of drunken officers from the outer provinces were shoving one another near the columns, voices rising, anger flaring beneath the music.
Garrick's voice rang out, sharp and mocking, shoving the servant into the officers' fray. It was nothing — a common enough disruption at court. But James moved before anyone else did. One moment he was beside her; the next, he had stepped forward, hand catching the arm of the nearest man with the quiet authority of command. "Enough," he said, low and even — the kind of tone that ended arguments and started obedience.
The officer blinked, swayed, and muttered an apology. The ballroom had stilled as the orchestra faltered mid-note.
"Garrick," Lady Araminta hissed, appearing from the throng like smoke. "Control yourself!"
Her son, flushed with wine and arrogance, sneered. "Only testing the vigilance of our fine commander. It seems he's quick to draw at shadows."
Lady Araminta's fan snapped open with a crack. "Apologies, Marquess. My son sometimes mistakes insolence for charm."
James's tone was low but cool in response, a mask of social politeness enveloping his face. " As a fellow soldier, I expected a fine son of Araminta to uphold chivalry." Lady Araminta flinched, grabbing Garrick by the shoulder and muttering about a dance. Garrick glared in turn at the Marquess, his gaze vicious and nearly too clear for a drunken man. Only then did James glance back at Seraphina.
She hadn't realized she'd moved too — her hand half-raised as if to reach for him, to pull him back, to stop what history had already once taken from her. Their eyes met, the smallest glimmer of panic in his only noticeable for she had traced his face in his sleep during their years of marriage. For the first time that evening, his composure cracked. Just slightly.
"Forgive me for speaking rudely. Such actions can be counted a…" he said, stepping close again. With a firm but courteous hand at her elbow, he guided her away from the crowd, leading her toward a quieter archway at the edge of the ballroom. "Instinct." Seraphina drew in a slow, steady breath as they reached a small resting area, tucked against the shadows of the corridor adjoining the hall. Plush chairs and a low table offered the illusion of safety and stillness.
She sank into one of the chairs, the fabric cool beneath her palms, her fan laying neatly across her lap. James stepped back, keeping that measured, always-appropriate distance. "You're as quick as the rumors say, Marquess," she murmured, still seated, her posture poised but relaxed enough to suggest calm. James glanced at her, the ghost of amusement flickering in his violet eyes. "You say that as though you've known me long enough to notice."
"Perhaps I've heard too much," she said carefully. He leaned against the pillar, upper torso tilting slightly toward her, the tone of his voice casual but probing. "Rumors are unreliable. Though I suppose they make excellent entertainment.".
"Not all stories are untrue," she murmured, adjusting the skirts of her gown as she settled deeper into the chair, her gaze carefully measured.
His lip twitched — faint, rare, almost reluctant as he swiftly and perhaps clumsily changed the subject. "Your family guards you fiercely.".
"Guards," she echoed, smoothing a hand over the deep night of her dress, fan laying gently across her lap as she nestled into a nearby chair. "Yes, that's the word they'd use."
He tilted his head, the upper half of his torso leaning in her direction, a tone of casual curiosity entering his usually strained voice. "And what word would you choose?"
"Possess." His expression sharpened slightly at her wrods — interest, perhaps, or recognition of something she couldn't yet name.
Before she could say more, a voice cut through the quiet: Garrick's, low and taunting. Before she could respond further, Garrick's voice cut through the quiet, low and taunting. "Sister. There you are." He stepped from the shadowed colonnade, half-empty glass in hand, amber eyes glinting with malice beneath a mischievous curl of dark auburn hair. His posture was loose, mocking — the exact opposite of James's taut, disciplined lines. "Mother's looking for you. She says it's unseemly to vanish with a man you've only just met."
"Then tell her I'm quite safe," Seraphina said coolly. Garrick's smile was all teeth. "That's what worries her." James's tone dropped, polite but edged. "I was merely enjoying the atmosphere of the ballroom. Your sister was kind enough to indulge conversation.". "Conversation," Garrick drawled. "That what they call it now?" The insult was deliberate and deadly for a soldier man at court.
James's eyes hardened, a muscle throbbing in his cheek. Seraphina remained seated, but her movements were deliberate and precise. She straightened her spine, snapped her fan closed with a harsh, practiced motion, and let her voice fall like silk over steel. "Garrick, go back to mother before you embarrass our house further." For a moment, her brother seemed ready to push. Then something in her gaze — steady, cold, no longer the compliant sister he remembered — made him falter. He lifted his glass in mock salute and turned away.
When he was gone, Seraphina exhaled slowly. James's gaze lingered on her profile. "You handle thorns well," he said quietly, the words even, almost casual, yet heavy with implication.
"I was raised among them," she replied, keeping her voice calm, her fingers brushing the lace at her wrists. She remembered the letter, folded now safely in her gown—the line about roses blooming early, his subtle acknowledgment of a danger or a challenge. That line had haunted her thoughts the week she had received it, whispering possibilities she dared not voice. And now, seeing him in the flesh, she could almost imagine his thoughts: measured, watchful, considering what she might be.
James remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, vigilant and measured, yet his gaze lingered on her in a way that seemed to weigh every nuance. For a moment, silence stretched between them. And in that pause, a memory flickered through James's mind—the letter he had read earlier that week. The careful phrasing, the sharp undercurrents, the subtle insistence that she might be… unpredictable, perhaps even a little unhinged. He had thought it then, and a shadow of that thought lingered now as he observed her, poised and composed, yet with a quiet tension beneath the surface. That same dangerous intelligence that had made her capable of destruction, of strategy, of survival.
"The roses seem to have bloomed early," he said, as if tasting the words before releasing them. "Araminta, ahead of season, unsettling the order of things." Seraphina paused, her fingers brushing over the place where a discrete pocket lie under her petticoats. He didn't say it tenderly. He didn't even sound impressed but the comparison — the thought — lingered in the air between them like a faint perfume: delicate, intrusive, impossible to ignore.
Her lips curved slightly. "Some things cannot wait their turn."
James's eyes lingered on Seraphina a moment longer, dark and unreadable, the faint twitch at his jaw the only sign of something beneath the icy surface. The orchestra's tentative notes swelled again, but the fragile tension in the room seemed to stretch on indefinitely. "Then," he murmured, voice low and precise, "let us hope nothing forces the season to change entirely before its time." Seraphina's pulse quickened. "I will endeavor to keep it… orderly," she said softly, smoothing her gown and forcing her composure.
"Marquess," she began one more her voice steady, "let us speak plainly. No ceremony, no pretense." James's violet eyes flicked to her, the faintest lift of a brow betraying curiosity. He remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, a wall of discipline and control. "Plainly?" His voice was low, precise—careful not to give more than necessary.
"Yes." She leaned back slightly, the cool fabric of the chair beneath her grounding her. "I am not a child, and I will not be treated as one tonight. There is no need for politeness between us here." He studied her, silence stretching, the tension in the corridor like a drawn blade.
She pressed on. "The engagement," she said, voice quiet but firm, eyes locked on his. "Where do we stand? What does this mean for us—tonight, and after?". A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or restraint—crossed his face. His hands remained behind him, shoulders shifting slightly as he considered her words. Then, in that same controlled tone that could command armies, he deflected. "Engagements are a matter of duty and strategy, Miss Araminta. I would not wish to speak of them as if they were… personal whims."
Her lips curved faintly, a shadow of amusement in the tension. "Then we are agreed on one thing: we speak plainly, but not freely.". She let her gaze wander for a fraction, studying the lines of his face, the subtle strength in his posture, the way he carried both command and caution. Even standing, he seemed contained, deliberate—every muscle trained, every expression measured.
Yet beneath it, she glimpsed the same man she had loved once, the soldier she had once known, the Marquess who had held life and death in his hands and yet now could not give away a single truth of his own. He said nothing of the engagement again, yet the deflection carried more meaning than any words. It was caution, awareness, and perhaps, for a flicker, recognition of the danger in letting truth slip too soon.
A subtle rustle signaled Alexandra's arrival, bright and intrusive, and James allowed himself a fraction of attention toward her without moving from his vigilant post. Seraphina adjusted her gloves, fan resting neatly, every inch composed, poised—but ready. Lady Alexandra appearing, bright but alert. "Seraphina! Your brother…" She glanced toward the Marquess, eyebrows lifting as he bowed to the Duke's daughter, face clamping back into restraint. "He seems unusual… spirited tonight."
Seraphina nodded faintly, every inch of her body on edge with the awareness that Jame's eyes had barely left her face since she chatted with Alexandra. James turned his head from her, a barely perceivable bashful blush coating his ears, violet eyes followed the exchange without comment, his posture taut, every muscle coiled. He catalogued each subtle shift in the room, his trained gaze catching every flicker of movement.
Then a subtle signal — a slight bow from a steward — drew James's attention. Moments later, a tall, austere figure appeared: a Duke of the realm, high in rank, his presence commanding in a quieter, sharper way as the Second Prince's advisor— Duke Rothwell. Seraphina blinked, a dull ache creeping into her had as if she had seen him at court before, his influence undeniable.
Duke Rothwell glanced at his daughter, a pleasant look coming to his face quickly before he smothered it. "Alexandra, why don't you take Miss Araminta to the gardens? The Marquess and I have business to discuss." Alexandra smiled and began to pull Seraphina away as James excused himself from their conversation, his steps measured, every inch the Marquess whose reputation demanded control. Finally it dawned on her as Alexandra dragged her away, her body stiffening: This was no mere formal visit; this was power speaking in the hush of secrecy. Alexandra looked at her briefly before releasing her arm and titling her head as if to say "Go on." Seraphina smiled at her and curtsied, before she followed.
❀
Seraphina waited, letting the dark corridor swallow her presence, letting the faint click of the door fade into silence. Every muscle in her body was taut, poised, like the string of a bow. Even the distant hum of music from the Beaumont Estate seemed muted, replaced by the rhythm of her own heartbeat. Thorns. The word twisted in her mind, curling around her thoughts, threatening to pierce through the careful control she had imposed over herself.
Footsteps echoed across the marble beyond the corridor. Guests of the Beaumont Summer Gala were beginning to pair off into what would surely become scandals in the mroning, their laughter tinkling like fragile glass. Seraphina eased herself from the pillar and adjusted the folds of her midnight gown, the silk brushing softly against her wrists, a whisper of power and elegance. Each movement was deliberate, precise—controlled. Not a hint of the storm that churned within her would betray itself to the world.
She stepped lightly into the hall, letting her skirts sway just enough to catch the attention of passing guests. Murmurs followed her, polite and perfumed with curiosity, but she ignored them, eyes scanning for a single figure: James.
Seraphina's eyes followed him, curiosity tinged with unease, until he disappeared into the dim corridor with the Duke. She let the shadows embrace her, feeling the cool stone against her back as she crouched behind a pillar, the pulse of the estate around her. Through the sliver of open door, the faint golden glow of candlelight spilled into the hall, washing the corridor in a warm, deceptive calm. It was an illusion. She had learned long ago that light could hide the sharpest of blades, and tonight, it would be necessary to see without being seen.
"Marquess," the Duke said, low and precise his voice muffled through the door, "The Concil needs to speak with you but I am here to simply deliver a message." James's posture did not falter, though Seraphina's pulse thrummed at the tension in his measured stance. "Of course, Your Grace." The corridor doors clicked closed behind them, and Seraphina pressed herself closer to the wall, straining to catch every word.
"Your conduct tonight," the Duke began, voice icy and deliberate, "cannot raise eyebrows. One misstep and the entire evening — Your Lordship, your House, even the Marquess's… usefulness ...in jeopardy...brother...father would be...engagement." Through a crack in the door, Serphina could see James's hands remained clasped behind his back, his tone even but sharp. "I am aware of my duties, Your Grace. Everything is under control...expedition...Valenfort...marriage..."
Seraphina's mind raced as she gathered wisps of their conversation. The Duke's warning was more than protocol, it was a veiled threat. She noted the subtle weight in his words, the careful measurement of danger and opportunity. This was someone who could be either a formidable ally or a deadly enemy.
"Control is not enough," the Duke continued, stepping closer, lowering his voice to a growl. "There are whispers, rumors… delicate matters. I trust you understand the consequences if you fail your station."
James's jaw tightened slightly, the faintest sign of tension, but his gray eyes remained cold, calculating. "I understand. Nothing will escape my attention, and nothing will interfere with your orders. I will see your commands executed, no matter the cost."
The Duke's gaze locked on him, unwavering. "Remember, Marquess — some of the thorns you think you command can cut deeper than you imagine."
James's voice, calm but resolute, sliced through her thoughts. "I will handle it myself." He looked unchanged, composed, untouchable — yet she now knew there was a threat he would not allow anyone to see. "Good. See that you do," he said, a tense silence followed, the Duke's eerie gaze lingering a heartbeat too long before he finally inclined his head. A pause hung like a drawn sword.
Seraphina pressed herself tighter against the pillar, heart pounding, as Duke Rothwell pushed the door open, his shoes clicking past her with the sound of burden dropping. Thorns. The word struck her like a warning. James had always been dangerous, but this Duke…this man's presence suggested a threat that could slice through even him. And yet, there was opportunity here too — knowledge she could use.
James exhaled subtly, though the posture of a soldier ready for battle never left him. Seraphina felt the weight of their shared history—a history only she remembered, a betrayal that had once shattered them both. She traced the sharp line of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, and the way his uniform sat like armor against his frame. The corridor was silent now, but the echo of the Duke's warning clung to the walls. Straightening his back, he made towards the door and paused as if noticing her before clicking it shut. The corridor was plunged into darkness.