Lady Penelope Carrington was quite certain she was going to faint.
It wasn't the heat of the ballroom, though with three hundred guests crammed into Carrington House, the temperature had risen to something approaching the warmth of Hades itself. Nor was it the overwhelming scent of perfume, pomade, and perspiration that seemed to cling to every surface.
No, the true culprit was her corset.
Judith, her lady's maid, had laced the wretched thing so tightly this morning that Penelope was convinced her ribs had permanently reshaped themselves. Every breath was a battle. Every movement a negotiation with whalebone and silk.
"For your debut, my lady," Judith had said cheerfully, yanking the stays with alarming enthusiasm. "You must look perfect."
Perfect. What a tiresome word.
Penelope slipped through the terrace doors, leaving behind the din of the ballroom, the orchestra playing their seventh waltz of the evening, the chatter of the ton dissecting everyone's gowns and prospects, her mother's delighted laughter as she held court near the refreshment table.
The cool night air hit her flushed cheeks like a blessing. She closed her eyes and drew in a proper breath for the first time in hours, feeling the corset protest with every expansion of her lungs.
"Finally," she muttered to no one in particular, wandering toward the stone balustrade that overlooked her mother's prized rose gardens. The moon was full tonight, casting everything in silvery light. "Some peace."
Her mother's annual First Ball was always an spectacle. The Duchess of Winterhaven prided herself on opening the season with an event so grand that every other hostess spent the following months trying, and failing, to replicate it. This year's ball boasted ice sculptures, champagne imported from France, and a string quartet so renowned they'd played for the Prince Regent himself.
This year's ball also had a new feature: Penelope herself.
At nineteen, she was finally out in society. Finally eligible. Finally available for inspection by every unmarried gentleman in London and quite a few of the married ones, if their wandering eyes were any indication.
She had been courted, if one could call it that, by no fewer than twelve men this evening alone. Lord Ashworth, who'd stepped on her toes twice during their dance. Mr. Pemberton, whose breath smelled of onions. Sir Gerald, who'd stared at her bosom the entire time he'd been speaking to her. The list went on, each suitor more tedious than the last.
Not one had asked her anything beyond the usual pleasantries. Not one had seemed remotely interested in anything she had to say.
They saw the Duke of Winterhaven's only daughter. They saw a sizeable dowry. They saw four influential brothers who could advance a man's career.
They did not see her.
Penelope gripped the balustrade, the stone cool beneath her gloved hands. Perhaps she was being unfair. This was how things were done, after all. Marriage was a business arrangement among people of quality. Love, if it came at all, came later. Her mother had told her as much during their conversation this morning.
"You will make an advantageous match," the Duchess had said, adjusting Penelope's hair. "Someone worthy of our family name. Your father and I have spent considerable effort ensuring you'd have your pick of suitors."
Pick of suitors. As if they were pastries at Gunter's.
"You're standing in my spot."
Penelope nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around, one hand flying to her chest where her heart had begun pounding against her already abused ribs.
A man stood in the shadows near the terrace doors, so still she hadn't noticed him. How long had he been there? Had he heard her muttering to herself like a madwoman?
He stepped forward, and the moonlight caught his features.
Oh.
He was handsome. Dreadfully, unfairly handsome in the way that made sensible young ladies forget themselves. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. A mouth that seemed designed for either poetry or wickedness, possibly both. And eyes…..she couldn't quite make out their color in the dim light, but they were fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
Not that she needed any help losing her breath, given the corset situation.
"I beg your pardon?" Penelope managed, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity.
"You're standing in my spot," he repeated, as if this were a perfectly reasonable thing to say. His voice was low, cultured, with an edge of amusement that immediately set her teeth on edge.
"Your spot?" She drew herself up to her full height, which was admittedly not very impressive. "This is my family's terrace."
"And yet I was here first." He moved closer, and she could see him properly now. He wore evening dress, black coat, perfectly tied cravat, doeskin breeches.
"That's hardly—" Penelope stopped, frowning. "Were you lurking in the shadows?"
"Lurking is such an ugly word." The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I prefer 'enjoying the solitude.'"
"At my mother's ball."
"Is it your mother's ball? I thought it was yours." His gaze swept over her, not in the lingering, uncomfortable way Lord Ashworth had employed, but with a kind of judgement that was somehow worse. "The golden-haired debutante in the white gown. Rather hard to miss, given that every man in that ballroom has been falling over himself to sniff around your skirts."
Heat flooded Penelope's cheeks. "How dare you—"
"Speak the truth?" He tilted his head. "My apologies. I thought honesty might be refreshing after an evening of empty compliments. Shall I tell you that you look like an angel descended from heaven? That your beauty outshines the very stars?"
"You are insufferably rude," Penelope said, her voice tight.
"And you are standing in my spot," he replied pleasantly. "So it seems we're at an impasse."
They stared at each other. Penelope's hands clenched in her skirts. She'd grown up with four older brothers, four large, loud, overprotective brothers who'd spent her entire childhood treating her like a porcelain doll that might shatter if looked at too hard. She'd learned early how to hold her own in arguments, how to give as good as she got.
This man, whoever he was, had just made a critical error. He had assumed she would simper and flee like the other debutantes.
"You have that insufferable air about you," she said, keeping her voice sweet. "I'm guessing.….Viscount? You're too arrogant to be a mere Mister, but you lack the supreme confidence of a Duke or an Earl. Yes, definitely a Viscount. Middle of the pack. Just important enough to be tiresome about it."
For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then, to her surprise, he laughed, his entire face transforming.
"Well," he said, and there was something like respect in his voice now. "That's a new one."
"Most young ladies haven't grown up with four older brothers," Penelope informed him primly. "I'm quite immune to male posturing."
"Four brothers." He seemed to be committing this information to memory. "The Carrington boys. That explains the spine."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're not like the others in there." He gestured toward the ballroom, where the orchestra had struck up another waltz. "They simper. They giggle. They pretend to be empty-headed because they think men prefer it. But you..." His eyes met hers. "You just insulted me to my face."
"You insulted me first," Penelope pointed out.
"Fair enough." He inclined his head slightly, almost a bow. "My apologies, Lady Penelope. I forgot myself."
"You know my name."
"Everyone knows your name. You're the prize of the season." Something flickered across his face, an expression she couldn't quite read. "Every eligible bachelor in London is hoping to win your hand. And your considerable dowry."
The words stung, perhaps because they were true. "And you?" she heard herself ask. "Are you hoping to win me as well?"
"No," he said simply, and she didn't know whether to be relieved or offended. "I'm not in the market for a wife. Particularly not one who steals other people's quiet spots."
"This is my family's—"
"Penelope?" A familiar voice cut through the night air. "Is there a problem, sister?"
Penelope's stomach sank. Adrian. The second eldest of her brothers and the most protective of the lot. He emerged onto the terrace, his eyebrows scrunched.
The stranger turned, and in one fluid motion, offered a perfect bow. "Lord Adrian. A pleasure to see you."
Adrian's eyes narrowed. "Ashmore." He moved to stand beside Penelope, his presence clearly protective. "I wasn't aware you had been invited this evening." They knew each other?
"Your mother was kind enough to extend an invitation," the man, Ashmore, replied smoothly. "I wouldn't dream of refusing the Duchess of Winterhaven."
There was something in the way they looked at each other, a tension that Penelope couldn't quite place. Not outright hostility, but certainly not warmth.
"If you'll excuse me," Ashmore said, inclining his head to Penelope one final time. There was something in his eyes, amusement? Warning? "Lady Penelope. Do try to enjoy the rest of your evening. I'm sure there are at least a dozen more gentlemen waiting to compare you to celestial bodies."
And with that, he turned and disappeared back into the ballroom, moving through the doors like a shadow.
Penelope and Adrian stood in silence for a moment.
Adrian's jaw tightened. "That was Lord Dorian Ashmore, Viscount Ashmore." He looked at her, concern etched across his features. "Stay away from him, Pen. The man's dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
"Just trust me." Adrian placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her back toward the ballroom. "He's not someone you want to associate with. Now come, Mother's been looking for you. Lord Hartley wants another dance."
Penelope let herself be led back inside, but she couldn't resist one glance over her shoulder at the empty terrace.
Viscount Ashmore.
She had been right about the title, at least.
And despite Adrian's warning, or perhaps because of it, she found herself hoping she would see the insufferable man again.
Just so she could tell him, quite clearly, that the terrace was most definitely not his spot.