Chapter Text
The morning of Lady Danbury's grand affair Mr. Price took it upon himself to judge his son's worn suit.
"John, I won't have you turning up to Danbury’s ball looking like a Sargent who's been dragged through the trenches."
Mr. Price's voice carried through the townhouse like a cannon blast, followed by the heavy thud of a walking stick against the polished floorboards.
John glanced up from where he sat near the fire, a cup of tea in hand, sleeves rolled to his forearms, expression flat. "It's Captain, Father. And this suit's just fine."
"Fine?" Mr. Price scoffed, storming into the room with a rolled newspaper under one arm and righteous indignation in the other. "Fine for marching across France, perhaps! But not for courting the Queen's diamond!"
Soap, sprawled across the sofa like a delinquent son himself, cackled. "He's right, sir. You can't woo a lady in battle-worn wool."
Gaz nodded sagely, holding a cup of coffee he hadn't paid for. "At least let him get something that doesn't smell of gunpowder."
Even Ghost, looming near the window, muttered, "If he shows up in that coat, half the ton'll think he's come to arrest someone."
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bloody traitors, the lot of you."
Mr. Price ignored him entirely, rifling through a pile of envelopes. "Luckily for you, I've already taken the liberty of summoning a tailor. You'll thank me when Her Majesty doesn't faint from horror at your lapels."
John looked up sharply. "You what?"
"Tailor's on his way," his father said, pouring himself brandy far too early in the day. "Told him you're in need of something modern—something that says decorated officer rather than escaped prisoner of war."
Soap snorted into his cup.
Gaz grinned. "Oh, this is going to be good."
John shot them both a warning glare before setting his tea down. "You realize this is entirely unnecessary. The ball's for her, not for me."
Mr. Price only smiled—smug, wise, and endlessly entertained. "Oh, my boy. Every ballroom in London will be watching her. But they'll all be measuring you."
John sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair. "If this suit costs more than my horse, I'm sending you the bill."
"Delighted," his father replied with mock cheer. "I'll frame it next to your wedding announcement."
The tailor had arrived, flustered and red-cheeked, measuring John with the frantic precision of a man handling dynamite. Soap and Gaz offered unhelpful commentary throughout.
"Make sure the sleeves show off them forearms," Soap said with a grin. "They'll set the ton on fire."
Gaz added, "And maybe add a bit more gold—make him look important."
John glared. "I already look important."
Ghost didn't even look up from his paper. "You look like you'd rather be shot."
Mr. Price laughed so hard he had to sit down. "Perfect! Exactly the brooding romantic the diamond will swoon over."
By the time the tailor fled, swatches of navy and black strewn across the table, John was scowling and his father was already planning which cravat would make him look "most dangerously handsome."
"Mark my words, lad," Mr. Price said, swirling his brandy. "You'll thank me when she looks your way tonight."
John muttered something under his breath—something that sounded a lot like "She already has."
The day of Lady Danbury's ball dawned bright and unyielding, as though even the sun refused to allow shadows to linger. From the moment the first tray of tea was brought to your chamber, the house was a storm of activity.
Maids hurried in and out with boxes and pins, ribbons and brushes. The sapphire gown — the one chosen days ago at the modiste — was laid across your bed like a promise, its silk shimmering with every movement of the morning light.
"Careful, careful!" your mother cried, sweeping into the room with your sisters fluttering behind her. "Do not crease the bodice! Diamonds crease, never."
Your maid began the delicate work of lacing you in, tugging until the sapphire silk hugged your figure in perfect, proper lines. Pearls gleamed at the neckline, and soon a case was produced, velvet and glittering with your family's heirlooms.
"Diamonds," your mother decreed, lifting a necklace that caught the light like fire. "Only diamonds. The Queen herself called you her jewel — we cannot do less."
As the necklace was clasped at your throat, your pulse thudded beneath it, too fast, too hot. You sat before the mirror, trying to compose yourself, but your thoughts strayed relentlessly.
To him.
John's steady gaze. The quiet way he had spoken your name. The promise in his voice when he said he would return. The heat of your dream still lingered in your skin, making you flush even now. You reached for your fan, snapping it open with a sharp flutter.
"Why is she blushing?" one of your sisters teased, leaning against the bedpost with a wicked grin.
"She's thinking of the Captain," the other sing-songed, earning a scandalized gasp from your mother.
"Girls!" your mother hissed. "Not another word. Do you want your sister walking into Lady Danbury's house already aflame with gossip?"
They dissolved into giggles anyway, whispering to one another as they watched you struggle to cool your cheeks.
Your father appeared at the door, pipe in hand, eyes crinkling with a smile. He took in the scene — your mother fretting, your sisters scheming, you fanning yourself before even leaving your chamber — and let out a soft chuckle.
"You look radiant, my dear," he said warmly. "No matter the jewels, it is you that shines."
Your throat tightened. "Papa..."
He winked. "Remember — you need not dazzle them all. Only the one who matters."
Your mother clucked her tongue, shooing him away with her fan, but the quiet encouragement lingered with you, warming your heart far more than the diamonds at your throat.
And when you rose at last, skirts rustling, sapphire silk whispering around your ankles, you thought not of dukes or princes — but of a soldier with steady hands and eyes that had already undone you.
If your house was a storm of silk and diamonds, the Price household was a battlefield of poorly hidden groans and sarcasm.
Soap stood in the middle of the drawing room, arms flung wide as a valet attempted to wrestle him into a cravat. "This thing's stranglin' me! I'll be dead before we even reach Danbury's fuckin' door!"
"Hold still," Gaz muttered, tugging at his own cuffs. "The sooner you stop squirming, the sooner you'll look like less of a tavern rogue."
"Rogue?" Soap grinned, tugging free anyway. "I'll have you know, I'll be the most handsome man in the room."
Ghost, already dressed in stark black, leaned against the mantel like a shadow, unimpressed. "You look like a tailor's nightmare."
Soap shot him a wink. "And yet, you still can't take your eyes off me."
John tugged at his own cravat in silence, the mirror offering back the reflection of a man far more comfortable in uniform than borrowed finery. The coat fit well, dark wool cut broad at the shoulders, but he still felt like he was being dressed for someone else's war.
His father bustled in, cane tapping, eyes alight with excitement. "There he is! Look at you, son. Every inch a gentleman."
John grunted. "Every inch uncomfortable."
"Good," Mr. Price said firmly, clapping his son on the back. "Society ought to make you sweat. That's how you know you're doing it right." He adjusted John's lapel with a care that betrayed his pride. "You've the look of a man about to win the night."
Soap snorted. "Win the diamond, you mean."
John shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
But Mr. Price only laughed, ignoring the warning entirely. "Do you know what this means, boy? Lady Danbury's eyes, the Queen's eyes, all of London's eyes — and her eyes most of all. The ballroom will be buzzing before you even step inside."
John straightened his cuffs, jaw tight. He could hear your laughter in his head, feel the phantom press of your hand in his. "It isn't a battlefield," he muttered. "It's worse."
"Exactly," Mr. Price said, grinning. "Which is why you'll march in like a Captain and dance like a man in love."
John froze, the words landing heavier than he cared to admit. Love. A soldier knew desire, duty, loyalty — but love? That was a weapon he'd never let strike.
And yet, as Soap spun in a circle to show off his cravat, as Gaz muttered about keeping his shoes polished, as Ghost exhaled in silent judgment — John found himself steadying, bracing, preparing.
Not for war.
For you.
Bond Street had never known such a parade. Carriage after carriage rattled along the cobblestones, lanterns glowing, wheels shining with polish, every horse adorned in gleaming harness. The entire ton seemed to converge on Lady Danbury's estate, its great windows blazing with candlelight, music already spilling faintly into the night air.
Your carriage rolled into the line, your mother fussing endlessly with the fall of your sapphire skirts, your sisters craning over one another to peer out the window at the spectacle. "Look!" one squealed, pointing. "The Bridgertons are here already!"
"And the Featheringtons," the other added, wrinkling her nose at the sea of orange gowns waiting at the steps.
Your brother muttered darkly, arms crossed tight. "A circus. All of them."
But your father only smiled, patting your hand. "Head high, darling. Remember—every light in that house is meant for you."
You swallowed, pulse racing, diamonds glittering at your throat. The closer you drew to the estate, the hotter the air seemed to grow, as though anticipation itself had weight.
Across the lane, another carriage rolled forward. Inside, Captain Price sat ramrod straight, Soap beside him nearly bouncing with delight.
"Would you look at it?" Soap exclaimed, pressing his nose to the glass like a child. "Chandeliers! Lanterns! All for us."
"It's not for us," Gaz reminded, smoothing his cuffs. "It's for her. For the diamond." His smirk lingered as he glanced at John. "And for the man fool enough to send orchids."
Ghost said nothing, seated in the shadowed corner, though his sharp gaze missed nothing as the crowd pressed in.
Mr. Price leaned forward, eyes alight with the thrill of it all. "Listen, John — the music, the laughter. You walk in tonight, and every whisper will follow. The Queen, the lords, the mothers, every girl with a fan in her hand. They'll all be watching."
John's jaw flexed. "I know."
His father clapped his knee with a grin. "Good. Then make sure it's worth their while."
Carriages pulled up one by one to the great steps, footmen rushing to open doors. Ladies descended in waterfalls of silk, jewels flashing, the crowd on the street craning to catch a glimpse.
And then—your carriage lurched to a stop. The footman opened the door, and the cool night air kissed your flushed cheeks. You gathered your skirts, stepping carefully down onto the stone, your family descending behind you. The crowd rippled, whispers rising like the swell of a tide.
"The diamond—look, it's her."
"She's wearing sapphire."
"She's never looked lovelier."
You lifted your chin, spine straight, smile poised. But in the crowd across the steps, you felt it — a gaze steadier than all the rest.
John.
He stood tall in his dark coat, his broad shoulders set, his eyes locked on you as though no other jewel in the world could outshine the one before him.
And though the ballroom doors yawned wide with all of society waiting inside, for a single moment, the world held only the two of you.
The great doors of Lady Danbury's house opened, and a wash of golden light spilled out onto the steps. You lifted your skirts just so, your mother at your elbow, your father steady at your side.
The air inside shimmered with heat and sound — violins swelling, chandeliers dripping with crystal, the rustle of silk and the constant flutter of fans. The ballroom was already crowded, every corner alive with whispers.
At once, your mother pressed a ribboned dance card onto your wrist. "Hold it proudly," she whispered sharply. "And remember — dukes and marquesses first. A prince, should one present himself. Nothing less."
You nodded, though your heart thudded far too fast for titles.
Lady Danbury herself swept forward, her cane tapping against the marble with authority. Her eyes — sharp as cut glass — swept over you, head to toe, then crinkled with something dangerously close to approval.
"Well," she declared, her voice carrying, "if it isn't Her Majesty's diamond. You'll do nicely, girl. See that you keep the gentlemen in line — though I daresay they'll not manage it tonight."
Your sisters nearly collapsed into giggles at her words. Your mother flushed with pride. You curtsied, murmuring, "Thank you, Lady Danbury."
"Mm," she said, lips twitching. "Don't thank me. You'll earn it yourself." With that, she swept off, already eyeing her next victim.
You exhaled, easing into the crush of silk and satin, when a familiar voice called across the crowd.
"Finally!"
Eloise Bridgerton wove through the dancers, her fan already flapping dramatically. "Do you know how tiresome this night has been without you? And look at you — sapphire and diamonds, the whole room buzzing like bees."
"Lady Eloise," you greeted warmly, curtsying. "I've missed you."
"And me?" Another voice chimed in, bright and teasing. Daphne Bridgerton appeared at Eloise's shoulder, her smile radiant. "It has been far too long since I've seen you. I return to town for a visit, and what do I find? My friend elevated to diamond, already turning the Season on its head."
You laughed, curtsying once more. "Daphne! It is wonderful to see you. I did not know you'd returned."
"Just for a short while," Daphne said, eyes sparkling. "But long enough to witness this scandal for myself. Flowers, whispers, a soldier bold enough to stand where dukes fear to tread..." She gave you a knowing look. "You must tell me everything."
Eloise smirked, looping her arm through yours. "Yes, everything. But not before we find the best vantage point to watch the lords stumble over themselves trying to claim your card."
The three of you moved together into the glittering throng, your sapphire skirts gliding across the marble, your heart pounding with nerves and anticipation. Somewhere in this crush of society, John Price waited. And the night had only just begun.
The hum of the ballroom shifted before the doors even opened, whispers swelling like a tide. Lady Danbury's cane tapped sharply on the marble floor, her sharp smile already betraying that she knew precisely what spectacle was about to walk through her doors.
And then the footmen pushed the doors wide.
Captain John Price entered first, broad shoulders filling his dark coat, boots polished to a soldier's gleam. Soap followed at his side, grinning as though he owned the place, Gaz behind him with his usual lazy charm, Ghost in stark black like a shadow gliding silently into the glittering crowd. Last of all came Mr. Price, his cane tapping, his expression smug as a man who had already won the game before the pieces had moved.
The ripple through the room was immediate.
"Soldiers—here?"
"Lady Danbury invited them?"
"Is that—him? The Captain?"
Fans fluttered furiously, mothers hissed warnings to daughters, dukes exchanged wary glances. But none of it touched John. His eyes swept the ballroom once, twice—and then found you.
There you stood, sapphire skirts gleaming under the chandeliers, diamonds glittering at your throat, Eloise and Daphne at your side. Your gaze caught his, steady and sure, and for a moment the noise of the room seemed to dim.
Soap elbowed him with a grin. "She's lookin' right at you, Captain."
Gaz smirked, tugging at his cuff. "Careful, mate. Half the room just noticed."
Ghost murmured, low and amused, "More like the whole room."
Mr. Price leaned on his cane, surveying the sea of scandalized faces with delight. "Let them look. Let them whisper. Tonight, John, you show them what a Price costs."
Lady Danbury swept forward, eyes glittering as she welcomed them with a bow of her head. "Gentlemen," she said, voice loud enough for all to hear, "you honor my house. Do make yourselves comfortable. And do, for heaven's sake, keep it interesting."
Her cane tapped once, sharp as a drumbeat, and the music swelled.
The soldiers had arrived. And the ballroom would never be the same.
The swell of violins broke off mid-phrase. Conversation died on lips, fans stilled mid-flutter, even Lady Danbury's sharp smile tilted toward the doors.
"The Queen," someone whispered, and at once the room shifted.
The great doors opened, and Queen Charlotte swept in, a vision of towering wig, glittering jewels, and velvet heavy enough to silence the very air. Behind her trailed Brimsley and a flock of attendants, all fluttering in her wake, though none dared draw attention from her majesty's stride.
"Bow," your mother hissed, and the room bent as one. You dipped low, sapphire silk pooling around you, diamonds glinting in the candlelight.
The Queen paused in the center of the ballroom, her eyes sweeping over the gathered company with imperious delight. She was searching, hunting, savoring the power of every trembling debutante under her gaze.
And then her eyes found you.
You felt it — the weight of her scrutiny, the sharp tilt of her head as she considered you like a jewel in her own crown. Your heart hammered, heat rising beneath your diamonds. You lowered your eyes, but the memory of her proclamation at the season's opening echoed in your head: This one. My interesting jewel. My diamond.
Beside the wall, John straightened unconsciously under that same gaze. The Queen's eyes flicked toward him next, catching the cut of his shoulders, the unmistakable set of a man who had seen war, not ballrooms. A soldier. A captain. The one whose orchids had scented half of London.
Her lips curved — not a smile, not quite approval, but something far more dangerous: amusement.
Lady Danbury leaned on her cane at the Queen's side, her chuckle low and knowing. "Shall we, Your Majesty?"
The Queen's fan snapped open. "Oh yes. Let us see if the diamond still dazzles."
The orchestra struck up again, louder, grander, as though even the music trembled under the Queen's gaze.
The night, already dangerous, had now become a battlefield.
The orchestra swelled again, couples already stepping gracefully onto the dance floor. Your card dangled from your wrist, still fresh with empty spaces. And yet, all you could feel was the weight of John Price's gaze, steady from across the ballroom.
He began to move — deliberate, assured, cutting through the crowd with the ease of a man used to moving through lines of battle. Each step drew him closer, your breath tightening in anticipation.
Your hand twitched at your skirts, ready to extend, ready to let him write his name among the lords and viscounts who had already queued for you. The hum of the ballroom shifted as heads turned, whispers starting to spark. The captain. The soldier. The one with orchids.
But just as John reached the edge of your circle, another figure stepped sharply into his path.
Your brother.
He planted himself between you and the captain with a stiff bow that was more a warning than courtesy. "Captain Price," he said coolly, voice pitched to carry just enough for nearby ears. "I trust you're enjoying yourself this evening?"
John's jaw ticked, though his bow was crisp, respectful. "Aye. Lady Danbury knows how to keep a room lively."
"Indeed," your brother replied, lips thin. "But lively does not always mean... appropriate. My sister is diamond of the Season. She is not to be trifled with by men who mistake orchids and boldness for entitlement."
The words pricked sharp. From your place beside Eloise and Daphne, you felt your cheeks heat with anger and embarrassment both. Eloise muttered under her breath, "Insufferable," while Daphne pressed her lips tight, watching.
John's gaze flicked past your brother — to you. His eyes softened for the briefest heartbeat, enough to make your pulse stumble. Then he returned his focus forward, voice steady but low with meaning.
"I've no intention of trifling, my lord. Only of asking for a dance."
"Perhaps another time," your brother said firmly, taking one purposeful step to block the way. "My sister has dukes to consider tonight."
The orchestra struck the opening of a waltz. The moment was slipping, the room leaning in to watch.
John's shoulders squared, but he did not push past. He bowed again, this time to you — deeper, slower, respectful but lingering, the promise clear in his eyes. Not yet. But soon.
And then he stepped back, swallowed by the crowd, leaving your heart pounding in your throat.
From her elevated seat, the Queen had the best vantage point in the house. No moment escaped her gaze, not the flutter of a fan nor the twitch of a bow. And certainly not the sight of Captain John Price halted mid-stride by the diamond's overzealous brother.
Her Majesty leaned forward, lips curving into a sly smile. "Well, well, Agatha. Do you see that? The soldier advances, but the brother plants himself like a brick wall. How delicious."
Lady Danbury's cane tapped once against the marble. Her grin was sharper still. "It was bound to happen. The boy thinks himself a sentry, but in truth he looks a fool, blocking a man who knows more of war than he ever will."
The Queen let out a delighted laugh, her fan snapping open. "Indeed! Look how the captain bears it. No brashness, no rash words. He bows, he retreats, but not defeated. Oh no—look at his eyes, Agatha. That man has patience. He has... strategy."
Lady Danbury hummed, clearly pleased. "He'll wait. He'll circle. He'll take his moment. And when he does, society will choke on its own outrage."
Brimsley leaned in, whispering nervously, "Does Your Majesty disapprove?"
"Disapprove?" The Queen's laughter rang, silencing the nearest cluster of debutantes. "I am entertained! Let the lords and brothers sweat, let Whistledown sharpen her quill. This Season has grown positively dull. But a diamond and her soldier? That is a story worth watching."
Lady Danbury's eyes gleamed as she sipped her wine. "And worth helping along."
The Queen's smile widened, dangerous and amused. "Quite."
You had barely recovered from the sting of your brother's interference when another shadow fell across you.
"My Lady," came a smooth voice, new to your ear.
You turned to find a gentleman bowing low. He was tall, with hair the color of wheat and eyes as pale as the pearls strung at his cuffs. His coat was cut impeccably, his smile charming enough to draw a ripple of approving whispers from the crowd nearby.
"I do not believe we have been introduced," he continued. "Russ. Lord Russ, of Kent. It would be the greatest honor if you would allow me this dance."
Before you could answer, your mother was at your elbow, fan snapping open with unholy speed. "Lord Russ! How very fortunate that you should appear. My daughter would be delighted."
You inhaled sharply, glancing at your father, who hid his smirk behind his wine glass. Eloise leaned closer to murmur under her breath, "At least he doesn't look insufferable."
Daphne's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Careful, he might be too charming. That can be dangerous in its own way."
Your brother stood stiff and smug, clearly satisfied that this—this titled, polished stranger—was more suitable than a soldier.
You swallowed, then inclined your head. "It would be my honor, my lord."
Lord Russ's smile deepened as he extended his gloved hand. His touch was light, practiced, but it did not send your pulse racing the way another man's gaze across the room still did.
As he led you toward the floor, you caught it—that steady stare.
John stood at the edge of the crowd, jaw set, eyes locked on you. He did not move, did not interfere, but the fire in his gaze burned hotter than any chandelier above.
And though you placed your hand obediently into Lord Russ's, your heart beat to the rhythm of a soldier's footsteps, waiting for the moment he would claim what others only circled.
The orchestra struck up a lilting waltz as Lord Russ guided you gracefully onto the floor. His hand at your waist was proper, his bow courteous, his every movement smooth and practiced.
"You dance beautifully," he said as you turned, his tone measured, his smile faint but polite.
"As do you, my lord," you replied, keeping your voice calm though your thoughts fluttered elsewhere.
He gave a short laugh. "I should hope so. My mother made certain of it. She always said no gentleman would survive a Season without mastering a waltz."
You smiled despite yourself. "She sounds very wise."
"She is," he admitted, his expression softening briefly. "Too wise for me at times. But I do my best to follow her instruction."
You moved together with ease, the two of you weaving seamlessly between other couples. He asked about your family, your siblings, the music — questions that required no more than polite answers. He spoke of his estate in Kent, of the roses his sisters adored, of his preference for early mornings spent on horseback.
None of it was offensive. In truth, he was charming in a way — kind eyes, a touch of wit, and no trace of arrogance.
"You must be exhausted," he said after a moment, voice lowering conspiratorially. "So many eyes upon you. I do not envy the pressure of being the diamond, though you seem to carry it effortlessly."
You inclined your head, your lips curving politely. "That is kind of you to say."
And yet—though he spun you cleanly, though his conversation was pleasant, though his manners could not be faulted—your heart did not quicken. Your cheeks did not flush. Your skin did not hum where his hand rested.
Not the way it had when another man's hand had guided you. Not the way it still did under the heat of a gaze you could feel across the floor even now.
As the music swelled toward its close, you dared to glance past Lord Russ's shoulder.
There he was. John Price, standing at the edge of the crowd, broad and steady, his eyes fixed on you with a quiet fire that not even the brilliance of the chandeliers could dim.
You exhaled, the last notes of the waltz carrying you to stillness. Lord Russ bowed again, earnest. "Thank you, my Lady. I should be glad to claim another dance, should your card allow."
You curtsied, polite as ever. "Of course, my lord."
But as he released your hand, it was not his touch you missed.
John stood at the edge of the ballroom, boots planted firm, coat too tight across his shoulders, eyes never leaving you. The sapphire of your gown caught the light with every turn, your diamonds sparking brighter than the chandeliers.
And in your arms, another man.
Lord Russ moved with practiced ease, his hand respectful at your waist, his words drawing faint smiles from you. A polite match, a proper one. And yet John could see it — the faint tilt of your head when you answered, the polite curve of your lips that did not reach your eyes.
"You're starin', Captain."
Soap's voice broke through, gleeful as ever. He elbowed John in the ribs, grinning like the devil. "The poor lass'll melt under your gaze if you don't give her a chance to breathe."
Gaz chuckled at his other side, swirling his drink. "He hasn't blinked in five minutes. I've seen sentries on watch with less focus."
John's jaw flexed, but he didn't turn away. "Mind your tongues."
"Mind your pulse," Soap shot back. "The whole room can hear it thundering from here."
Ghost, leaning silent in the shadow of a pillar, muttered low. "He looks like he's plotting an ambush."
Mr. Price gave a loud huff, tapping his cane against the floor. "God above, John. You've led men through cannon fire, marched them across fields littered with shot, faced down armies without blinking. And yet here you stand, rooted like a schoolboy, while her pup of a brother blocks your path."
John finally dragged his eyes from you, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not the brother. It's the bloody spectacle. Every step I take, half the room holds its breath."
"Then let them," his father snapped, eyes glinting. "You've never let bullets stop you. Don't let whispers do it."
Soap raised his glass in mock salute. "There it is. Captain Price: war hero, orchid-bearer, hopeless romantic."
John exhaled through his nose, low and rough, then glanced back toward you just as Lord Russ bowed, releasing your hand. Your curtsy was perfect, polite — but the way your gaze drifted, searching the crowd, set something fierce alight in him.
His father leaned close, voice sharp but warm. "There's your chance, boy. Don't waste it."
John's hand curled at his side, the soldier in him ready at last to move.
The orchestra struck up another waltz, violins sweeping high. You had only just returned from the floor, still flushed from Lord Russ's polite attentions, when two figures cut through the crowd at once.
Captain John Price.
Lord Ashworth.
Each strode with purpose, each intent written plainly across his face. Your pulse kicked, anticipation tangling with dread as they converged upon you.
But before John could reach you, your brother appeared again, the perpetual sentinel. He slid neatly between, clapping a too-firm hand on the Captain's arm. "Price," he said coolly, "a word."
John's jaw flexed, his bow sharp but clipped. "My lord."
"I don't believe you've met the Duke of Hastings." Your brother's voice carried just enough to make sure half the nearest circle heard. He gestured toward the tall, composed figure beside him — Simon Basset, every inch the paragon of rank and refinement. "Captain John Price, Duke Simon Basset."
The duke inclined his head politely. John returned it, though his eyes never left you.
In that brief pause, Lord Ashworth slipped in with the ease of a man used to filling silence. He bowed low before you, smile polished, words smooth. "My Lady, might I claim this dance?"
Your mother beamed from across the room. Your brother gave a curt nod. Your card was lifted delicately from your wrist before you could even speak.
And just like that, Ashworth's hand was at your waist, guiding you away as the orchestra swelled.
You glanced over your shoulder once, heart stumbling.
John stood stiff among dukes and lords, his father bristling at his side, Soap smirking, Gaz shaking his head. His eyes found yours across the expanse of the ballroom — steady, burning, unyielding — even as society pulled you into another man's arms.
The music swept you into the waltz, Lord Ashworth's hand steady at your waist, his smile gleaming as though the very chandeliers shone for him. He guided you with practiced ease, posture immaculate, his every movement rehearsed for display.
"You honor me," he said smoothly, voice pitched to carry just enough for those nearby. "Dancing with you is surely the pinnacle of my Season."
You managed a polite smile. "You flatter me, my lord."
"I only speak truth." His eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of possession hidden in his charm. "London may fawn over orchids and soldiers, but men of my rank understand what truly matters. Legacy. Title. Enduring power. That is what a diamond deserves — not fleeting gestures."
Your steps faltered, only slightly, but he corrected without missing a beat. "Forgive me," he said, though his smile did not soften. "I mean only that you should not waste your shine on those who cannot reflect it properly."
The words pricked sharp — not subtle, not kind. A warning dressed as compliment.
You forced your gaze to his face, but your eyes betrayed you. Over his shoulder, you found John.
He still stood where your brother had pinned him, a storm barely contained beneath his composed exterior. He was not smiling, not charming, not gilded in the way lords were taught to be. He was simply watching — steady, unyielding, as though the entire ballroom could collapse and he would still be there, waiting.
Heat coiled low in your chest.
Lord Ashworth leaned in, voice dropping. "Your brother is wise to guard you. Too many would dare presume. I, at least, know what I want." His hand pressed a fraction firmer at your back. "And I have no intention of losing it."
The violins swelled, the floor spinning with silks and jewels, but you barely heard it. Your body moved in perfect step with Ashworth, but your heart beat to the rhythm of another man's gaze.