The chandeliers of Velenhart Manor dripped with gold light, every crystal catching the laughter and polite murmurs of the crowd below. Perfume mingled with the scent of expensive wine, and the sound of violins swelled like a perfect lie.
Camilla Fairbourne smiled until her cheeks ached. She'd been taught to — taught to be poised, to be pleasant, to be wanted. But every flutter of her fan, every gracious nod at a stranger's introduction, was another stitch tightening around her ribs.
The soirée was for Lord Adrian Velenhart, heir to the Velenhart fortune, to choose a bride. Camilla was one of the "prospects." A perfect daughter of a respectable family. A perfect future lady. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
She hated it.
Her corset felt like a cage, the air thick in her lungs. "Excuse me," she murmured to the small knot of ladies she'd been entertaining, their eyes darting toward Adrian across the ballroom like hounds after a fox.
The moment she stepped into the hall, the sound dulled, replaced by the hushed crackle of firelight from sconces. The silence wrapped around her like relief.
She wandered down the corridor, trailing her fingers over the silk wallpaper, until she found a heavy oak door at the far end. A guest room, perhaps. Somewhere to breathe.
The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp and the glow of the fireplace. Warmth kissed her skin as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She unhooked her necklace, laying it on the table. Her fingers moved to the laces of her gown, loosening the ribbons until the bodice slipped slightly, baring the curve of her shoulder.
Her breath deepened as she reached for the corset's hooks. One. Two. Three—
The door swung open.
Xavier Velenhart stepped inside, tugging at his cravat like a man suffocating. He hadn't expected company — least of all a woman standing in the firelight, her dress hanging loose, her hair spilling down in dark waves that caught his gaze and held it fast.
Her eyes widened. "This— I thought—" She clutched the fabric to her chest.
"This is my room," Xavier said, his voice low, rich. His gaze didn't waver. "And you… are not supposed to be here."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
He closed the door behind him, the click echoing through the quiet. "If you're worried I'll send you back to the ballroom," he murmured, stepping closer, "you don't know me at all."
She should have moved. Should have apologized, fled — but his presence drew her in, an invisible thread winding tighter. The firelight danced in his eyes, catching on the faint shadow of a smirk.
"You're Xavier," she said softly. "The one who's never home."
"And you are? Xavier said confused
"Camilla Fairboure"she said with a smile
The air between them thickened.
He reached past her, his hand brushing the bare skin of her arm as he rested his palm against the wall. "It should," he said, leaning close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. "It doesn't."
Her heart thudded. "Someone could come in."
"Then," his gaze dipped to her mouth, "we'll have to be quick."
Her corset hung looser now, her pulse pounding against the stays. He didn't touch her yet — didn't have to. The way he looked at her was enough to set her skin aflame.
And in that moment, Camilla realized she didn't care about rules, or reputations, or the man she'd been meant for.
She cared about the one standing in front of her.