Rowan took a glass of wine from a passing waiter. He took a sip. It was a heavy red, rich and dry. He swirled it in the glass, watching the crimson liquid coat the sides.
He felt a heaviness in his chest. A pang of... something.
He looked at Weston. Weston was glowing. He looked at Carlisle. Carlisle was cynical, but he had a mistress he clearly adored in his own twisted way. He looked at Pym, who was fiddling with a locket that undoubtedly held a picture of his own fiancée.
They were all moving forward. They were all finding their partners in this dance of life.
And him? He was standing still.
He noticed that the room had gone quiet again. He looked up.
Weston was staring at him. Carlisle was staring at him. Pym was staring at him.
They weren't looking at him with the usual admiration he got from society. They were looking at him with... pity.
Rowan felt a flush of heat creep up his neck. He instinctively touched his cheek.
"What is it?" he asked, rubbing his jaw. "Is there something on my face? Did I miss a spot shaving?"
Carlisle swirled his drink, the ice clinking softly. "No, Rowan. Your face remains annoyingly symmetrical. We were just wondering…"
"Wondering what?" Rowan asked, his guard going up.
Pym leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "When are you tying the knot, Rowan?"
Rowan stiffened. He forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears.
"Not you too," Rowan groaned. He walked over to an empty armchair and sat down, feigning exhaustion. "I get this from my Aunt Margery every morning before I've even had my coffee. I come to the club to escape the matchmaking, not to be interrogated by my best friends."
"It is a valid question," Weston said gently. He stepped away from the fireplace and sat on the edge of the table near Rowan. "Look at us, Rowan. Pym is engaged. Carlisle is… occupied. I am getting married on Saturday. Even fat Lord Binky got married last month."
"Binky married a woman who owns a bakery," Carlisle noted dryly. "He did it for the scones. A tactical marriage. I respect it."
"The point is," Weston continued, ignoring Carlisle, "you are the Duke. You are the catch of the season. You have been the catch of the season for five years. You have the title, the money, the looks. Why are you still alone?"
Rowan stared into his wine glass. The red liquid looked like a dark pool, deep enough to drown in.
"I am not alone," Rowan said lightly. "I have you lot. And I have a very demanding estate to run. My tenants need new roofs. My horses need exercise."
"Rubbish," Pym said. "You have an army of stewards to run the estate. You are stalling."
"I am not stalling," Rowan insisted. "I am... selective."
"Selective," Carlisle snorted. "You have rejected the Diamond of the Season three years in a row. You rejected the Italian Countess. You rejected the American heiress with the shipping fortune."
Rowan shrugged. "The Countess talked too much. The heiress chewed with her mouth open."
Weston looked at him closely. He leaned in, lowering his voice so the waiters wouldn't hear.
"Rowan," Weston said softly. "Are you still thinking about that girl from three years ago?"
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
Rowan's hand tightened on his glass. His knuckles turned white.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"The Mystery Girl," Carlisle said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "The one you met at that masquerade ball at your uncle's estate. The one you have been hiring private investigators to find for three bloody years."
"She wasn't just a girl," Rowan snapped. The defense came out before he could stop it.
He closed his eyes for a second. He could still feel it. The cold air of the balcony. The warmth of her body as she crashed into him. The smell of rain and jasmine. The way she had kissed him—not to seduce him, but to survive.
"She jumped out of the balcony," Rowan said quietly. "In a ballgown. She cursed in French. She... she was real."
"Yes, yes, we know," Pym said, though his voice was sympathetic. "She jumped out of a balcony. Very athletic. Very dramatic. But Rowan… that was three years ago. You spent ten minutes with her."
"It was enough," Rowan murmured.
Weston put a hand on Rowan's shoulder. He shook his head slowly, sadness in his eyes.
"She is long gone, my friend," Weston said. "You have to accept that. If she wanted to be found, you would have found her. You are a Duke. You could find a needle in a haystack if you paid enough people. We searched the guest lists. We searched the villages. She vanished."
"Maybe she is married," Carlisle suggested unhelpfully. "Maybe she moved to the Continent. Maybe she was a hallucination caused by bad punch."
Rowan felt a sharp pain in his chest. Long gone.
He knew they were right. Logically, he knew it was madness. It was obsession. It was foolishness to pine for a ghost when there were real, flesh-and-blood women like Lady Belle waiting for him.
But the thought of marrying someone like Belle— someone docile, someone who would never surprise him—made him feel cold. It made him feel like he was suffocating.
"I know," Rowan said. His voice was rough.
He cleared his throat. He sat up straighter. He pushed the memory deep down into the dark corners of his mind.
"I know she is gone," Rowan lied. He forced a wide, dazzling smile onto his face. It was his best performance yet. "I am just… picky. That is all. I haven't found anyone who can tolerate my snoring as well as you lot."
He stood up and raised his glass high.
"But we are not here to discuss my pathetic love life," Rowan boomed, injecting false cheer into his voice. "We are here to celebrate Weston! To the man who has somehow convinced a lovely woman that he is worth marrying!"
The tension in the room broke. His friends looked relieved. They didn't want to see him sad. They wanted the Golden Boy back.
"Hear, hear!" the men shouted.
"To Weston!" Carlisle yelled, raising his sherry.
"To Ophelia!" Pym added.
They all clinked their glasses in a toast.