Rosamund
I had adjusted my dress for what felt like the hundredth time when Madam Theresa's hand closed firmly over mine.
"Relax, my lady." She murmured. "Everyone in this room will know it's your first ball if you keep doing that."
"I'm uncomfortable." I forced a smile and dropped my hands. "And this dress —" I glanced down at the scandalously low neckline. "Couldn't you have found something less revealing? I look like I belong in a club, not a ballroom."
"Properly raised ladies do not make jokes about their birthrights, Rosamund. Remember what we discussed."
"I know," I sighed.
"Then act like it. You need only survive this evening and an introduction to the Duke. For heaven's sake, stop slouching."
I straightened my back and said nothing.
As a server glided by with a tray of crystal glasses, I reached out instinctively— desperate for something to do with my hands— when fingers clamped around my wrist, yanking it back painfully.
I turned, stunned, and looked into the eyes of my father.
"Are you insane?" he said through gritted teeth. "Are you trying to meet the Duke reeking of alcohol?"
"I'm sorry, Father. It looked like water."
"You'll have all the water and wine you want after the meeting." He released me and smoothed his jacket. "Remember your lines, and for the last time, don't forget your name tonight."
"I won't. I have everything memorised."
He started to say something when a tall, thin man in a dark coat appeared from the crowd. He leaned close to my father and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was drained the colour from my father's face.
Without sparing Madam Theresa or me a glance, the thin man disappeared as quickly as he'd come.
"The Duke is here." My father's throat worked as he swallowed. "He's already asking for us. For Rosamund specifically."
Madam Theresa blinked. "Already? I thought he never comes to Balls on time."
"Apparently, tonight is different." My father said, smoothing the lapels of his coat with slightly unsteady hands. "Do you think she's ready to meet him?"
"She'll do, my Lord. She's not as polished as a proper lady, but as long as she speaks only when spoken to, everything will be fine. The Duke is not a man of many words."
My father nodded and faced me fully for the first time that evening. It had been barely forty-eight hours since we'd met, and this was not the reunion I had imagined during all those years of waiting and wondering.
"Listen to me, Rosamund. This is your chance to make a lasting impression on the Duke and secure our family's future. Give it your absolute best."
"Can I at least know what this is about?" I asked, my gaze darting between him and Madam Theresa. "If I understood what I was walking into—"
"That is not necessary," he cut me off. "You only need to do as we've instructed."
"But what if something goes wrong? What if I make a mistake and the Duke finds out the truth?"
The warmth I'd briefly imagined in his expression vanished entirely. "Then you're as useless as your mother was, and I'll have wasted considerable effort retrieving you."
"Father —"
"That's enough," Madam Theresa stepped between us. Turning to my father, she said softly. "Go now, my Lord. You mustn't keep the Duke waiting."
My father motioned to me, and I followed him through the crowd, trying to steady my breathing while ignoring the pointed stares and whispered gossip floating past my ears.
Who is the lady with Baron Fletcher? Where did she come from?
We left the ballroom and climbed the marble staircase to the landing, then veered down the right corridor until we reached the last room. Two guards stood stationed outside the mahogany door. When they saw us, one knocked lightly.
"The Baron is here."
A soft, feminine voice replied from inside. "Send them in."
The door opened, and my father walked in with me at his heel. The room was larger than I expected, with six people present.
A middle-aged man with glasses perched on his nose sat in one corner, with two women in nurses' uniforms standing behind him.
On the other side, seated in a velvet chair near the fireplace, was a devastatingly handsome man. He wore a tailored dark waistcoat and crisp white shirt, his dark hair swept back from a sharp jawline. His grey-blue eyes studied the glass of wine in his hand with cold indifference.
That must be him — the Duke.
I rehearsed the words "Your Grace" silently, just as Madam Theresa had instructed me to address him.
Beside him stood a beautiful woman in a burgundy dress, blonde hair pinned in an elaborate style, her smile not reaching her eyes.
There was another man I nearly missed—standing at the window with his back to us. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark riding clothes that clung to his muscular frame. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he didn't acknowledge us as we entered.
"Baron Fletcher," the woman came forward. "I'm Jennifer, the Duke's private secretary." Her gaze moved to me. "And this must be your daughter?"
"Yes." My father turned to me. "Dear, introduce yourself."
I stepped forward and bowed just as Madam Theresa had taught me, my heart pounding against my ribs. When I straightened, the man in the velvet chair was studying his nails.
"My name is Rosamund Fletcher," I said quietly, turning to Jennifer. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady."
"My lady?" Jennifer's smile widened with amusement. "Lord Fletcher, how delightful. Your daughter has interesting ideas about protocol."
Heat flooded my cheeks.
"Forgive her," my father said quickly. "Up until a week ago, she was living with her grandmother in the countryside. She's not yet accustomed to society."
"I didn't ask for explanations." Jennifer scoffed, then turned to the man with glasses. "Arthur, please proceed with examining the lady."
"Examine her?" My father stepped forward, arching his brows. "Why?"
"One of the criteria for a Duke's bride," Jennifer said, clearly unbothered, "is to ensure she's a virgin. If your daughter cannot meet that requirement, the arrangement will not go through."
I stilled. Bride.
"What is she talking about, Father?" I whispered.
"Not now, Rosamund." He waved me aside and turned to Jennifer. "No one informed me of this requirement. Surely we can —"
"If it's not convenient, you're free to leave. But the agreement is off." Jennifer cut him off. "Make up your mind, Lord Fletcher."
Sweat beaded on my father's brow as he turned to look at me.
"Father, what is this about a bride?" I whispered again. "Am I to marry the Duke?"
Guilt flashed across his face, but it was gone in an instant. He turned to Jennifer and nodded. "Fine. I approve."
"But Father—" I reached for his sleeve. "This is not what you told me."
"You're here now," he said coldly, brushing my hand away. "That's all that matters. Do your duty."
Arthur had already reached me, the two nurses flanking my sides. "If you'll follow me to the adjacent room, Lady Rosamund. It won't take long."
"Father!" I pulled against their grip, panic cracking through my voice. "You told me this was an introduction. You never said anything about marriage —"
"Take her away," Jennifer waved dismissively. "We don't have all night."
The nurses tightened their hold and steered me toward the side door. I dug my heels in, reaching back toward my father, but he had already looked away.
"Father, please —" I cried.
Just as we reached the side door, a voice cut through the room, overshadowing my panicked pleas.
"That will not be necessary."
The nurses froze. Arthur looked to Jennifer, who, for the first time, seemed uncertain.
The voice had come from the window.
The broad-shouldered man in dark riding clothes had turned at last. He crossed the room in slow, measured strides, stepping into the glow of the chandelier.
He was wearing a mask.
The mask covered the upper half of his face from forehead to cheekbones. Only his jaw remained visible.
Fear prickled at the back of my neck as I stared at him.
"Your Grace," Jennifer moved toward him, her composure returning. "The examination is standard protocol. You must let Arthur do his job."
"I determine what protocol is," he said quietly, his gaze settling on Jennifer with an intensity that made her step back. "The examination is cancelled."
He turned from her without ceremony. "Clyde, finish up the agreement with Lord Fletcher, and prepare the carriage. We leave for Wellspring tonight."
"Well noted, Your Grace," Clyde replied.
The handsome man in the velvet chair— the one I had mistaken for the Duke— rose immediately. He lifted a small leather case from beside his seat and carried it to my father, placing it in his hands with a bow.
My father stared at the case. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
"Your Grace… I don't know what to say."
The masked man had already turned away from him. He was walking toward me.
The nurses released my arms instinctively and stepped back.
I lowered my head. My hands were trembling at my sides, and my breath came shallow and uneven. I didn't want him to see the confusion, the fear, and helpless anger on my face.
He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I caught the faint scent of lavender, it was an unexpected softness for a man like him.
Slowly, he reached for my right hand and as his fingers closed around mine, I was shocked at how cold his touch was.
He lifted my hand and lowered his head, pressing a soft kiss to the back of my fingers. The gesture was filled with respect, which made no sense to me.
When he straightened, his grey eyes held mine through the mask's openings.
"My name is Nevan Wilder," he said softly. "I am the Duke of Wellspring."
He paused, letting the words settle between us.
"And I intend to be your husband."