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Chapter Text

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It would seem that the Queen's latest diamond is no ordinary debutante. A beauty with wit enough to match, she has already caught the eye of London's most eligible bachelors - dukes, lords, and even princes. Yet society gasps not at her suitors of title, but at one man bold enough to steal a dance beneath the Queen's gaze and, scandalously, to send orchids to her very door.

A soldier.

Captain John Price, recently returned to London, strides into the ton with no pedigree and no patience for its games. And yet, he may prove the only man bold enough to win the diamond's heart.

Will this Season end in triumph, or ruin? That, dear reader, is a tale I shall delight in telling.

Yours most devotedly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter Text

From the moment you first drew breath, your life had been carefully arranged like the place settings on your mother's dinner table-fine china, polished silver, and lace napkins folded into delicate shapes. Born into wealth and reputation, you were no stranger to the exacting eyes of London society, nor the heavy burden of expectation that came with belonging to one of its most notable families.

Your family was a picture of the ton's ideals: a father respected for his investments and partnerships, a mother who wielded her social calendar like a blade, and four children-yourself among them-who were expected to secure alliances as much as happiness.

Your eldest brother carried the full weight of the family name upon his shoulders. Groomed since birth to inherit your father's business affairs, he bore the responsibility with a solemn dignity that sometimes bordered on overbearing. Still, his loyalty to you never faltered, even when it meant clashing with suitors who, in his opinion, were "altogether undeserving."

Your sisters, younger in age, filled the house with both chatter and competition. They were clever, quick with their wit, and blessed with beauty that had already begun to turn heads in drawing rooms and gardens alike. Their presence was a constant reminder that in this glittering world of gowns and gossip, every sibling was both ally and rival.

And then, of course, there was you.

You were born not simply to exist but to shine, to embody every expectation placed upon the daughter of such a family: grace in every curtsey, eloquence in every conversation, charm enough to captivate a room without daring to outshine the crown jewels themselves. Your mother would remind you of this each morning as she supervised the maids arranging your gowns and smoothing your hair into fashionable waves.

"Do not forget, dearest," she would say, adjusting a pearl at your ear. "A lady's reputation is her greatest asset."

But beneath the polished exterior, beneath the practiced smiles and carefully measured words, you longed for something more than the gilded cage of expectation. You wanted freedom. You wanted choice. And-though you scarcely dared admit it-you wanted passion, the kind whispered about in scandal sheets but never spoken of at tea.

This, then, was the stage upon which your story would unfold. The Season had begun, the ballrooms opened their gilded doors, and London's elite gathered beneath glittering chandeliers to gossip, scheme, and fall in love.

Chapter Text

Captain John Price returned to London as the city blossomed into another glittering Season. Carriages rattled over cobblestones, women in silks paraded through Mayfair, and the ever-watchful ton sharpened their tongues for gossip as readily as their knives for supper.

He was not, by nature, a man of the ballroom. His world was not one of chandeliers or sonatas, but of battlefields-mud, powder, and smoke still clung to him even now. He bore the scars of campaigns fought far beyond English shores, and the weight of command still bent his shoulders in ways a tailor's hands could never smooth away.

Yet duty called him back all the same. Not the duty of king or crown this time, but of family. His father, a retired officer turned gentleman landowner, had written with firm insistence that it was high time John rejoined society. Appearances must be made. Connections renewed. Prospects... considered.

Price tugged the brim of his hat lower as he disembarked at his family's townhouse. The familiar façade loomed, columns white against the soot of the city. It felt foreign after years abroad. Too clean. Too delicate.

He wasn't alone in his return, of course.

"Oi, London looks the same," Johnny MacTavish-Soap to all who knew him-grinned as he leaned out of the carriage behind Price. His accent, as thick as Highland fog, drew a look of disapproval from an elderly lady passing by. Johnny only winked in response.

Simon Riley followed at a slower pace, towering and masked in black as if the Season itself was beneath him. "Looks like a bloody trap," he muttered, his voice low and dry. Ghost never was one for finery. The mask drew stares, but Simon wore it with the indifference of a man daring anyone to speak against it.

And then there was Kyle Garrick-Gaz-ever the balance between them. He took in the fashionable streets with curiosity, his gaze sharper than he let on. "Better than a camp tent," he quipped, though he adjusted his coat like he wasn't sure how to stand among such polished folk.

Price allowed himself a small smile as his men-his brothers, in truth if not in blood-followed him up the steps. They were out of place here, and yet he would not have wanted anyone else at his back.

The ton would see them as oddities, soldiers roughened by war trying to play at gentlemen. They would whisper, they would speculate, and they would never truly understand.

But John Price had faced cannons and sabres, and there was little in a gilded ballroom that could truly unsettle him.

Little, save perhaps the glance of a certain young lady who did not yet know his name.

Chapter Text

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is with the greatest delight (and no small degree of wicked amusement) that I bring to you the tidings of this new Season. The chandeliers have been polished, the dance cards readied, and the Queen herself prepares to select her glittering jewel from amongst the throng of eager young ladies. Who, I wonder, shall be crowned the diamond of this glittering year?

One cannot ignore the whispers that a certain daughter of a most prominent family may very well secure Her Majesty's discerning favor. With beauty matched only by wit-and siblings enough to fill a ballroom on their own-this young lady's entrance into society is already the subject of no small speculation. (Indeed, some say her smile may undo even the most steadfast of men... and you, dear reader, know how rarely such things are said in jest.)

And speaking of men-what a peculiar sight our polished streets have borne witness to of late! Four gentlemen, their bearing unmistakably forged upon battlefields abroad, have returned to London. A certain Captain, his presence formidable yet captivating, was seen striding through Mayfair with companions who look more suited to the smoke of cannon fire than the candlelight of Almack's. Still, society adores novelty, and novelty they most certainly provide. One wonders-will they find the ton's gilded halls as dangerous as any skirmish overseas?

Her Majesty, as always, shall preside with eagle eyes. And if rumor holds true, she is most eager to see whether steel-clad soldiers can hold their ground against the sharper blades of society's wit.

Yours most devotedly,
Lady Whistledown

Chapter Text

The paper still lay on the breakfast table, its edges smudged from eager fingers. Lady Whistledown's ink had scarcely dried before it was already the only subject on every tongue in the house.

Your mother's eyes sparkled as she folded the page for the third time, as though by holding it closer she might wring further delight from the words. "Do you see, my darling? A young lady of prominent family, beauty and wit—why, who else could she mean if not you?"

Your elder brother strode into the room just in time to catch the tail end of her exclamation. He plucked a piece of toast from the tray, glancing at the discarded paper. "Or a Bridgerton," he countered smoothly, though there was the faintest curve to his mouth. "Whistledown does love her darlings."

"Bridgerton or not," your mother interjected firmly, "it is clear this Season shall belong to us. To you." Her gaze landed squarely on you, the weight of it as tangible as the pearls she already imagined clasped around your throat. "The Queen herself will look to confirm it, and when she does—oh, you shall have no shortage of suitors. Half the ton will be at our door by week's end."

Your sisters giggled behind their teacups, exchanging sly glances that made it clear they were already imagining the parade of lords and viscounts.

You, however, felt the stirrings of unease beneath your practiced smile. It was one thing to curtsy and smile, to be paraded as if you were a diamond in a jeweler's case. It was another to live beneath the relentless gaze of society, to be chosen, weighed, and found worthy—or not.

Your brother leaned against the mantel, studying you with a mix of affection and amusement. "Best steel yourself, sister. Every mother in Mayfair will be loosing their sons upon you like hounds after a hare."

Your mother swatted at him with her napkin. "Do not be vulgar. A lady of this family is not chased. She is pursued."

You exhaled softly, knowing there was no point in protest. The ball was days away, and whether you longed for it or not, the Season had already chosen you as its stage.

Across the way, the Price townhouse smelled faintly of pipe smoke and old leather, a soldier's home dressed in a gentleman's clothing. John Price had only just settled into the study when the door burst open and Johnny MacTavish came striding in, a crumpled paper held aloft like a trophy.

"You're in it!" Soap announced, his voice echoing through the hall. "Name's not written, but it's you, I swear it. You, me, Ghost, an' Gaz—all of us!"

Simon Riley appeared behind him, slower and quieter, his ever-present mask obscuring his scowl. "In what?" he asked flatly.

"Some column," Soap said, dropping the paper onto the desk. "The whole bloody city's clutchin' it like a prayer book."

Gaz leaned over John's shoulder as he unfolded the sheet. "Lady Whistledown's Society Papers," he read aloud, skepticism in every syllable. "What in God's name is this?"

John's father looked up from his armchair by the hearth, spectacles perched on his nose. "Ah, Whistledown!" he exclaimed, far too delighted. "The only voice in London that matters. A chronicler, a critic, and—if you ask me—the truest entertainment this city has to offer."

Soap frowned. "So, a gossip, then?"

"A historian," the elder Price corrected, wagging a finger. "The history that people actually care to remember. Who danced with whom, who fainted, who was caught in the garden with their lips where they oughtn't be. Far more interesting than parliamentary records, I assure you."

Simon's dry voice cut through. "So we've been paraded through the streets and now we're gossip."

"You're novelty, lad," Mr. Price said with a grin, folding the paper with great care. "Soldiers returned from foreign campaigns, striding through Mayfair as if the ton were your battlefield. Why wouldn't Whistledown notice? You'll be the talk of every drawing room by sundown."

John exhaled slowly, already weary of it. "With respect, Father, I'd rather be left out of society's gossip."

"Nonsense," his father replied, tapping the folded paper against his knee. "It will do you good. Make you desirable."

"Desirable?" Gaz repeated, grinning. "To who?"

"To every ambitious mother and restless daughter in London," Mr. Price declared. "Mark my words—when you step into that ballroom, they'll all be watching. Soldiers or not, you've been handed an introduction by Lady Whistledown herself. That, gentlemen, is a weapon far sharper than any blade."

Soap's grin widened. "Well then, Captain, seems we're in for a fight after all."

John rubbed a hand over his beard, muttering low. "Bloody marvelous."

Chapter Text

The palace glittered brighter than any ballroom you had ever seen. Marble floors gleamed beneath your slippers, gilt mirrors caught the light of a thousand candles, and the air itself seemed weighted with perfume, silk, and expectation. Every girl of the Season stood waiting in a line that stretched like a ribbon down the grand hall, each one desperate for a single moment before the Queen.

Your mother fussed over the fall of your gown as the line inched forward. "Remember," she whispered urgently, "grace in your curtsey, eloquence in your tone. The Queen will see everything. And when she looks at you, you must make her believe you are already the diamond she seeks."

Your brother leaned in, smirking faintly, though his voice was low with sincerity. "Don't let her rattle you, little sister. If she stares too long, stare right back."

You rolled your eyes at him, but the truth was your stomach fluttered with nerves. It was one thing to be admired in a drawing room—it was quite another to stand beneath the gaze of the most powerful woman in England.

At last, your name was called. The world seemed to narrow into the few measured steps across the marble floor. You moved forward, gown whispering around your ankles, the eyes of the entire court prickling across your skin.

And then you were before her.

Queen Charlotte sat upon her throne like a jewel given life, resplendent in silks of deep purple and gold, her wig towering in curls and plumes that seemed to scrape the heavens. Her eyes—sharp, discerning, merciless—rested upon you.

You sank into your curtsey, lower and steadier than you had ever practiced, your skirts fanning around you like a halo. The silence of the hall was deafening.

When you lifted your gaze, the Queen had not looked away. She studied you with a predator's patience, the kind that could crown you with glory or crush you in a single word.

At last, she hummed, low and thoughtful. A gloved hand lifted, and her lips curved the faintest degree.

"How very... interesting," she declared, her voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber.

The courtiers around her stirred, whispers already beginning. Your mother's eyes shone with triumph. Your brother's smirk widened as if to say, told you so.

And though your knees trembled, you rose from your curtsey with your head held high, knowing full well that Lady Whistledown's ink would be wet before the hour was through.

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

Dearest Reader,

The Season has at last begun, and what a beginning it has proven to be. Our beloved Queen Charlotte sat in judgment, her gaze sharper than a jeweler's loupe, weighing the worth of each debutante brought before her. Some wilted, others trembled, but one young lady—ah, one—commanded attention.

Her curtsey was flawless, her poise unshaken, her beauty undeniable. And, most telling of all, Her Majesty did not merely glance, but lingered. Indeed, the Queen's own lips formed the faintest of smiles, accompanied by the most dangerous word in our language: "Interesting."

If that is not enough to set every ambitious family into a frenzy, dear reader, I know not what is. The diamond of the Season may very well have already been chosen. The question now is—will the gentlemen of the ton prove worthy of such a prize?

Yours most devotedly,
Lady Whistledown

"Interesting?" Soap repeated the word with a snort of laughter, tossing the paper down onto the side table. "That's what she said? That's it?"

John tugged on his waistcoat with deliberate care, though his jaw tightened. "If the Queen said it, then the rest of London will treat it like gospel."

Gaz leaned against the mantel, grinning. "They already are. Every maid in the street's whispering about the girl the Queen smiled at. They say she might be the diamond."

Simon's low voice cut through, dry as ever. "So some poor lass has been chosen as this year's sacrificial lamb."

"Sacrificial lamb?" Soap echoed, half-offended, half-amused.

Simon adjusted his gloves. "Every man in society will circle her like hounds at a hunt. She'll be bartered, courted, and judged until the Season's done. Sounds more like a punishment than a prize."

John said nothing at first, only smoothed the line of his coat and adjusted the cuff at his wrist. But when he spoke, his voice carried the quiet certainty of a commander. "It's a heavy crown, being called the diamond. Whether she wants it or not."

Soap tilted his head, watching his captain with interest. "You sound like you've already chosen a side in it."

John gave him a sharp look, one that shut him up quick. Still, as the clock struck the hour and the carriage was called to bear them to the ball, John couldn't help but wonder about the girl who had stood before the Queen and earned that word.

"Interesting," indeed.

Chapter Text

Your mother's nerves seemed to infect the very walls of the house. Servants rushed about with steaming irons and fresh gloves, ribbons and flowers spilling from every trunk as if the whole of Mayfair had been packed into your dressing chamber.

"Stand still, dearest, stand still," your mother fussed, smoothing the bodice of your gown for the fifth time. "The Queen herself looked upon you with favor. Do you know what this means? Every eye will be upon you tonight. Every. Eye."

You tried not to fidget beneath her hands, though your mind was already miles away—inside a glittering ballroom, chandeliers blazing, the crush of silks and scents, and the press of eager stares waiting to weigh and measure you like a jewel on display.

Your brother entered without knocking, fastening his cufflinks with a disapproving scowl. "I've looked through the guest list. Half the lords in London will be circling like flies tonight. You'd do well to ignore them."

Your mother bristled. "Ignore them? What nonsense—your sister must fill her dance card."

"Not with anyone who comes calling," he shot back, folding his arms across his chest. "I'll not have her wasting time on empty-headed fops who cannot manage their own estates, let alone a family."

"Protective to a fault," your mother muttered, but she did not remove her hand from your sleeve. Instead she fussed again with your hair, twisting a pearl into its careful waves.

Your father appeared at the door, his voice genial as always. "Do not frighten her before she's even set foot in the ballroom. Tonight is a triumph. The Queen's notice has set the tone—there is no higher favor."

"Exactly so," your mother said, beaming. "You may very well catch the eye of a prince tonight, my darling. Imagine—your beauty, our fortune, joined with the crown of some foreign kingdom. A match for the history books."

You smiled politely, though inside you felt the weight of every expectation pressing on your shoulders. A prince. A duke. A man of title and wealth. That was what your parents wished for, what the world seemed to demand.

But as you turned toward the mirror, gazing at your reflection framed in silk and candlelight, you wondered: what if none of them stirred your heart? What if your attention caught on someone entirely unexpected?

What if "interesting" meant something very different to you than it did to the Queen?

If you had been a jewel polished for display, then John Price felt very much like a weapon dulled and thrust into a velvet sheath. He stood before the tall mirror in his father's study, tugging uncomfortably at the stiff collar of his evening coat. The fine wool fit, but only just, broad shoulders and the set of his stance making him look more prepared for campaign than cotillion.

Behind him, chaos.

"Saints preserve us, I look like a bloody wax figure," Soap groaned, spinning in a circle as if admiring himself. He had been given a tartan waistcoat for the evening—whether by accident or cruel jest, no one could say—and was already attempting to strike heroic poses in it. "Think the ladies will swoon, aye?"

Gaz smothered a laugh. "They'll swoon, all right. Probably from secondhand embarrassment."

Simon Riley had not bothered to shed his mask, though he wore a black coat tailored with such severity he might have been cut from the shadows themselves. He adjusted his gloves with deliberate calm. "This is idiotic," he muttered, voice low enough to vibrate. "Dressing up to be stared at like cattle."

John ignored them, fastening the last button of his waistcoat. His beard had been trimmed, boots shined, every inch of him polished within an inch of respectability—yet he still felt the same man who had marched through mud and smoke. Society might dress him in silk, but he would never fit.

From the armchair, Mr. Price regarded them all with a grin, pipe smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. "You lads clean up well enough. Even you, Simon, though God help the girl who tries to glimpse your smile."

Simon's silence was answer enough.

John's father leaned forward, his tone sharpening with practiced authority. "Now listen here, John. You've been handed a gift. The Queen herself smiled upon a young lady this week. A girl already whispered to be the diamond. You'd do well to secure an introduction tonight."

John's jaw ticked. "With respect, Father, I've no intention of turning this ball into a battlefield."

"It is a battlefield," Mr. Price shot back. "A different kind, but no less important. You've returned with honor, with reputation, with strength. Society will look at you, son. Do not waste their gaze."

Soap leaned in with a smirk. "Translation: find a lass and make her Mrs. Captain."

John shot him a look that could have frozen water. But his father only chuckled, puffing on his pipe.

"Do your duty, John," Mr. Price said simply. "A title may make a man noticed. But a legacy? That is built in the ballroom."

The carriage bell rang outside, sharp and demanding.

John adjusted his cuffs, exhaled, and strode for the door, his men falling into step behind him as naturally as if marching into battle.

The carriage rolled to a stop before the glittering façade of the chosen venue for the night's affair. Music already spilled from its windows, strings and laughter blending into one dizzying promise of spectacle. Your mother's hand pressed against yours as the door swung open, her excitement palpable.

"Smile, dearest," she whispered as you stepped down, skirts gathered in a careful lift. "All of London is waiting."

Inside, the ballroom was a blaze of light. Chandeliers scattered brilliance across gowns in every shade of the rainbow, gentlemen in starched coats bowed and laughed, and the air was heavy with the scent of roses and beeswax. The hum of conversation carried the unmistakable undercurrent of whispers: That is she. The Queen's 'interesting' girl.

You tried to hold your head high, though your stomach fluttered. Already, your brother was at your side, intercepting the first eager lord who dared approach. "She's not available just yet," he declared, waving the man off with the authority of a general. "Try again later. Much later."

"Must you chase off everyone?" you hissed under your breath.

"I must," he said smugly. "Half these men are fortune-hunters. The other half are fools."

Your mother, however, had quite the opposite approach. She fluttered her fan and all but pushed you forward into the current of guests. "Do not dawdle. If you hide in the shadows, you'll miss every opportunity. A prince may yet appear, and if he does, he must see you first!"

Your father offered only a wry smile, clearly enjoying the tug-of-war between his wife and son.

It was then, in the swirl of silks, that you spotted familiar faces—Miss Penelope Featherington and Miss Eloise Bridgerton, standing near the refreshment table. Relief flooded you as you hurried toward them.

"Already drowning?" Eloise asked dryly, her sharp eyes flicking to the throng of mothers prowling with their sons in tow.

"Utterly," you admitted, pressing your hands together. "I dread this already."

Penelope gave you a sympathetic smile, though her gaze darted nervously to the crowd. "You'll be quite the spectacle, I fear. Lady Whistledown made certain of that."

"I'd stow away in a carriage if I thought I'd get away with it," you murmured.

Eloise's laugh burst out, unladylike and honest. "Tempting, isn't it? Though I'd like to see my mother's face when she discovered it."

Before you could reply, your mother's fan snapped shut like a command. "There you are! Do not linger in corners—it gives the impression you've no dance partners. Come along, come along."

And just like that, you were ushered away again, tugged back into the golden current of expectation, your brother circling like a guard dog and your mother's ambitions driving you forward.

The Queen had not yet arrived, but already, the ballroom hummed with the promise of something—someone—worth watching.

The orchestra swelled just as the heavy doors opened again. Conversation faltered, heads turned, and a ripple passed through the ballroom like wind over tall grass.

John Price stepped inside.

He was not alone—behind him strode three men who looked as out of place in silk and satin as wolves in a parlor. Soap, all restless grin and mischief, adjusted his tartan waistcoat as if daring anyone to laugh. Gaz, sharp-eyed and smooth, took in every corner of the room with the ease of a man used to spotting exits. And Ghost... Ghost drew stares, his mask a scandal in itself, his presence so imposing that more than one lady's fan trembled as he passed.

But it was John who commanded the most attention. Broad-shouldered, jaw set, his dark coat cut to the line of his frame—it was not polish that marked him, but gravity. He did not walk as a suitor. He walked as a commander, each step steady, certain, unbothered by the flurry of whispers that rose in his wake.

"Soldiers," someone hissed behind a lace fan.

"Lady Whistledown was right—rough men in our ballrooms!" another whispered, scandal sharpening her tone.

"Rough? Perhaps. But look at him—"

John ignored the tide of speculation, his gaze sweeping the room like a man surveying a battlefield. Candlelight caught the edges of jewels, the sweep of gowns, the eager gleam in too many eyes. He had braced himself for this moment, and still it felt like walking into enemy fire.

And then he saw you.

Across the glittering crowd, tucked between your mother's watchful pride and your brother's protective scowl, you shone. Not in the way the other girls gleamed with sequins and feathers, but in the way you held yourself—calm, composed, with a smile that was polite but not eager, distant but not cold. A jewel perhaps, but not yet claimed.

For the first time that night, John's shoulders eased. The noise of the ballroom dulled, and he found himself watching you longer than he ought to, his hand tightening absently around his glass as though it were a musket.

Soap nudged him with a grin. "Captain, you're starin'."

John did not look away.

"Interesting," he murmured, almost to himself.

Your dance card had scarcely been tied to your wrist before your mother was brandishing it like a general's battle plan. "Lord Stanhope will have the first set," she declared, already scanning the room for the man in question. "Heir to a most respectable estate. Excellent prospects."

Your brother leaned in, voice dry. "Respected? He's insufferable. Talks more of his horses than anything else."

"Horses at least make money," your mother sniffed. "Better than half the empty-headed charmers floating about."

You hadn't the chance to reply before the man himself appeared, bowing with practiced flourish. Lord Stanhope was tall, well-dressed, and already sporting the smug confidence of someone quite certain of his own appeal. He swept you onto the floor just as the violins began.

The steps were familiar, drilled into you since childhood, but conversation was another matter entirely.

"My stables are without compare," Lord Stanhope said grandly, guiding you through the turn. "You must come to the country sometime, my Lady. I shall show you my finest mares."

You smiled politely, murmured something agreeable, and tried not to roll your eyes.

When the set ended, he pressed your hand and promised another dance. Your brother appeared almost instantly, intercepting him with a raised brow that sent the man retreating faster than if he'd faced cannon fire.

But there was no respite. Your mother was already directing the next suitor forward—a Viscount, his waistcoat strained from indulgence at too many suppers. He spoke at length about politics you had no interest in, pausing only to admire his own cufflinks.

After him came a baron, younger, eager, his nerves making him stammer. Then a duke's cousin, who danced beautifully but looked at you as though you were a dowry rather than a woman.

By the third set, your cheeks ached from polite smiles.

"Enough," you muttered to your brother as he steered you toward the edge of the floor for a moment's reprieve.

"Not nearly enough," your mother countered, sweeping in at once. "These are excellent matches. Every one of them suitable. A prince may yet appear before the night is out."

Your brother scoffed. "And until then, you'll let every man with a title step on her slippers?"

Their voices blurred together, your mother pushing, your brother blocking, and you caught between the two. Your heart wasn't in these dances, no matter how perfect the titles or how gilded the futures painted for you.

Somewhere across the room, unseen by them but not by you, a soldier in a dark coat leaned against the edge of the crowd. His eyes—steady, unreadable, unshakable—hadn't left you since you stepped onto the floor.

The music swelled again, another set beginning before you had even recovered from the last. A marquess with far too much pomade bowed and offered his hand, and though you smiled with the same grace your mother drilled into you since girlhood, inside you wanted to scream.

You had endured four partners already, each more tedious than the last. Each conversation a catalogue of lands, titles, horses, politics—every word calculated to impress, none of them meant to move you.

When the marquess at last relinquished you, you curtseyed politely, and before your mother could swoop with another name, you caught Penelope Featherington's eye across the floor. She stood near the edge, fan clutched nervously in her hand, as if she too longed to vanish.

You seized the moment.

"Penelope," you called lightly, sweeping toward her. "Do come with me for some air."

Your mother's sharp protest followed you—"Not long, darling, not long!"—but you did not turn back. Penelope slipped her hand into yours, relief plain on her face as you guided her toward the open French doors.

The night air rushed over you like a blessing. Cool, crisp, tinged with the faint scent of roses from the garden beyond. The laughter and music dimmed as the doors shut behind you, leaving the two of you alone beneath the lantern glow.

Penelope exhaled, shoulders slumping. "If I hear one more gentleman describe his estate in Kent, I shall faint from sheer boredom."

You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you more freely than it had all night. "I was just thinking I'd climb over the garden wall to escape if I must endure another dance."

Penelope grinned, though her gaze flicked toward the shadows of the terrace. "Perhaps someone might lend you a hand with the climb."

You followed her glance—

And froze.

Leaning against the balustrade, half-hidden in the shadow of the stone archway, stood a man. Broad-shouldered, coat cut dark against the pale lanternlight, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. His eyes—sharp, steady, impossibly blue—were fixed on you.

Captain John Price.

Penelope's lips quirked, mischief sparking in her eyes. "Well then," she murmured, already beginning to step back. "I think I shall fetch another glass of punch."

The terrace was hushed, lanterns glowing soft gold against stone and ivy. For a long moment neither of you spoke, the cool night air holding its breath with you.

John Price tapped the ash from his cigar, the glow painting his jaw in fleeting amber. His gaze never left yours, steady but not unkind.

"You've the look of someone trying to escape," he said at last, his voice low, rough around the edges in a way that felt startlingly different from the polished tones of the ballroom.

You tilted your chin, forcing composure though your pulse beat traitorously fast. "And you've the look of someone who does not belong here."

That drew the faintest smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sharp eye. You're not wrong. I'm a soldier, not a courtier. The velvet still itches."

You let out a soft laugh before you could stop yourself. "Velvet itches less than duty, I imagine."

He regarded you closely then, as though weighing the truth of your words. "You know something about duty?"

"Enough," you said, glancing back toward the ballroom doors where the music swelled. "Every step, every smile, every dance. All duty. The Queen's favor has made certain of that."

His eyes softened, though his stance remained rooted, solid. "So you are the one."

You arched a brow. "The one?"

"The diamond everyone's chattering about," he said. "Didn't much believe it until tonight."

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you were grateful for the shadows. "You should not say such things."

"Why not?"

"Because," you murmured, taking a careful step back, "a lady cannot be found alone with a man. Not at a ball. Not at midnight on a terrace. Lady Whistledown would devour me whole."

His smile deepened, though it remained quiet, private. "Then we shall keep her guessing."

You shook your head, though your lips betrayed the hint of a smile. "You seem like trouble, Captain."

He took one last pull of his cigar, exhaling slow. "Aye. That's been said before." His gaze held yours, the weight of it grounding and unsettling all at once. "But not to you. Not yet."

For a heartbeat, it felt as though the world had narrowed to the space between you—the hush of the garden, the soft glow of lanterns, the steady hum in your chest that had nothing to do with violins.

Then, like a bell breaking a spell, the orchestra struck up a new set. Laughter spilled onto the terrace as guests wandered near.

You drew in a breath, gathering your skirts. "I must go."

He inclined his head, the faintest glimmer of something unreadable in his eyes. "Go, then. I'll see you again before the night's out."

Your heart stumbled at the certainty in his tone. Still, you turned, slipping back inside before scandal could bloom.

And for the first time that evening, you found yourself wondering not about titles, not about crowns or princes—but about the soldier with smoke on his breath and laughter hidden in his beard.

The ballroom pressed back around you the moment you slipped through the French doors. Heat, perfume, and chatter wrapped around your shoulders like a suffocating shawl. You had scarcely taken two steps before your brother appeared at your side, eyes narrowed.

"Where have you been?" His voice was low, but his grip on your arm was firm. "I turned my head for a moment, and you vanished."

"Air," you said lightly, forcing calm. "Surely I am allowed a breath now and again without scandal."

His brow arched, skeptical. "You look... flushed."

"I have endured more introductions in one hour than I have in all my entire life. If that does not warrant a flush, I cannot imagine what would."

He studied you for a long moment, then exhaled, relenting but not entirely. "Stay close. I'll not have you wandering off alone. The ton is a hunting ground, and you are not prey."

Before you could reply, your mother swept in with a triumphant flutter of her fan. "There you are! Lord Ashford is seeking another set—oh, how delighted he was with your first."

Your brother groaned under his breath. You smiled politely, even as your mind drifted back to smoke curling in lanternlight and eyes that seemed to see through every mask in the room.

Across the ballroom, John Price had rejoined his men. Soap was elbow-deep in punch, loudly proclaiming it was "watered down beyond salvation." Gaz hovered near the wall, surveying the crowd with wry amusement, while Ghost loomed in silence, his presence a deterrent stronger than any chaperone.

"You disappeared," Soap remarked, squinting at John. "Don't tell me you've already found a garden wall to lean against."

John gave him a look, sharp enough to silence further questions. Still, Soap grinned like a man who'd sniffed out a secret.

Gaz tilted his head, catching the faint shift in John's expression. "You saw her."

John didn't answer. He adjusted his cuffs, his jaw tight, his gaze deliberately fixed on the musicians. But the muscle that ticked in his cheek betrayed him.

Ghost finally spoke, voice dry as dust. "You're rattled."

"I am fine," John said shortly.

"Mm," Ghost murmured, unconvinced. "Then why do you look like a man waiting for cannon fire?"

Soap chuckled, lifting his cup. "Well, lads, looks like the Season just got a lot more interestin'."

John ignored them all, though his hand brushed absently at his beard, as though he could still feel the ghost of your smile.

Before any further jests could be made, the air in the ballroom shifted. A hush rippled outward, conversations faltering, fans stilled mid-flutter. Then, like a tide parting, the crowd drew back toward the walls.

"Her Majesty," the herald proclaimed.

Queen Charlotte entered with all the force of a storm contained in silks and jewels. Her gown shimmered in hues of peacock and gold, her towering wig a crown unto itself. Attendants trailed like shadows, courtiers bent low, and the orchestra struck a regal chord.

Every eye turned. Every head bowed.

Your mother's hand clutched your arm, fingers trembling with excitement. "Now, my darling. Now is the moment that will decide everything."

Your brother shifted beside you, protective instinct warring with the inevitability of it all.

And across the room, John Price straightened his shoulders, his soldier's stance returning without thought. Yet even as the Queen swept to her throne, his gaze sought you again through the glittering crowd.

The Queen was here. The Season had truly begun.

Chapter Text

The orchestra fell silent, the last note of a violin trembling into the hush as Queen Charlotte settled upon her throne. The air was thick with perfume and anticipation, every guest holding their breath for her judgment.

Her gaze swept the room, sharp as the edge of a blade, and no one dared meet it too long. She surveyed gowns and jewels, silks and feathers, mothers and daughters clutching one another's hands with hope so palpable it seemed to perfume the air more heavily than roses.

Then, her eyes found you.

You felt the weight of it like a physical thing, pinning you in place. Your knees threatened to buckle beneath your gown, but you held your curtsey, your chin steady even as your heart thrashed against your ribs.

The Queen tilted her head, studying you with that same lingering pause she had given days ago in the palace. Her lips curved, and the hush deepened, the ballroom straining to catch every syllable that fell from her mouth.

"This one," she said at last, her voice cutting through the silence like a fan snapping shut. She gestured with her gloved hand, her gaze never leaving yours. "My interesting jewel. My diamond."

The room erupted. Gasps, sighs, a scatter of applause, whispers rising like a storm: The diamond! The diamond!

Your mother's fan flew open with a snap of triumph, her eyes shining with tears of delight. "I knew it!" she hissed under her breath, her hand clamped to your arm as if she could tether you to the glory itself.

Your brother's jaw tightened, pride warring with protective dread. "God help us," he muttered grimly. "Now they'll descend in droves."

You rose from your curtsey, your smile calm, your back straight—though inside, you felt dizzy, as though the floor had tilted beneath you.

Across the room, John Price stood rooted, the declaration echoing in his chest. The diamond of the Season. You.

Soap let out a low whistle. "Well, Captain," he said, grinning like a fox. "Seems the Queen's just marked your lass for every vulture in London."

John didn't answer. His eyes were still on you, steady, searching, as if the title changed nothing and yet everything all at once.

Above the thunder of whispers, the Queen leaned back on her throne, satisfied, her voice carrying the final blow:

"See that she shines."

The Queen's words had scarcely left her lips before the ballroom erupted in motion. Mothers surged forward with their sons in tow, a tide of silk and ambition pressing in around you.

"Allow me to introduce Lord Pembroke!" one matron cried.

"My nephew, the Marquess of Ainsley!" another insisted, shoving a stiff young man forward so quickly he nearly trod on your hem.

Hands reached, voices overlapped, smiles dazzled—each more insistent than the last. Your mother's face glowed with triumph, though she wielded her fan like a weapon, batting away lesser titles and shepherding dukes and viscounts toward your side.

Your brother stood at your shoulder, jaw clenched, intercepting anyone who lingered too near. "No," he snapped at one overeager suitor. "And absolutely not," to another. "If you can't look her in the eye without sweating, then move along."

You tried to breathe, tried to keep your smile fixed, though it felt as though you were suffocating in a sea of eager faces.

And then, across the press of bodies, you saw him.

John Price, still as a statue at the edge of the crowd. His broad shoulders cut a striking figure against the swirl of color, his gaze fixed on you—unflinching, steady, unshaken by the storm. He didn't move with the desperation of the others. He waited, patient as a man on the edge of battle, until the moment was right.

When it came, he did not head for you. He cut through the throng with measured steps until he stood before your father.

"Captain John Price," he said, bowing with crisp precision. His voice carried, calm and resonant, meant for your father's ears alone. "Might I request the honor of a dance with your daughter?"

Your mother's head snapped around, scandal blazing in her eyes. "Absolutely not. A soldier? When dukes and princes line the floor?"

Your brother's glare was sharp enough to cut glass. "She will not dance with the first man who thinks to charm his way through."

But your father—your steady, thoughtful father—regarded John with interest. He noted the soldier's stance, the discipline in his voice, the respect in the bow. This was not a man simpering for a dowry. This was a man who meant what he said.

"I think," your father said slowly, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, "that my daughter may choose her own partner for this set."

The protests of your mother and brother rose at once, but it was too late. John's hand extended toward you, broad and sure.

And for the first time that evening, your heart leapt not with dread, but with something far more dangerous.

The crowd parted, whispers rippling outward like waves as John Price strode toward you. Every step was deliberate, his presence so commanding that even the boldest of mothers faltered, tugging their sons back lest they be trampled in his wake.

He stopped before you, bowing low. His hand extended—broad, steady, waiting.

For a breathless moment you hesitated, your mother's fan snapping open in a sharp no, your brother bristling like a guard dog. But your father's nod, small yet firm, anchored you.

You placed your gloved hand in his.

His fingers curled around yours with a surety that stole your breath. No fumbling, no clammy palms—just the quiet certainty of a man who knew exactly how to hold his ground.

"Miss," he said, his voice pitched low for you alone, "allow me."

And then he was leading you through the throng, every eye following, every whisper growing louder.

The orchestra struck up a waltz, and together you stepped onto the floor.

It was flawless.

From the first turn, his hand at your waist guided you with perfect steadiness. He moved with a soldier's precision, each step measured, yet softened by a grace you had not expected. Where others stumbled or clutched too tightly, he was effortless, matching your rhythm as though he had been dancing with you for years.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"Who is he?"

"A captain, they say. A soldier returned from war."

"How does he dance so well?"

But above all, one question whispered with growing alarm:

"What does he want with the diamond?"

From her throne, Queen Charlotte leaned forward, eyes alight with intrigue. She tapped her fan against her lips, gaze narrowing on John Price as if he were a puzzle to be solved.

"My diamond shines," she declared loudly enough for those nearest to hear, her tone dripping with relish. "But what, pray tell, is this soldier doing polishing her?"

The comment sent another ripple through the room, scandal blooming like wildfire.

And yet, as John's hand tightened ever so slightly at your back, his eyes steady on yours, you felt no fear. No doubt. Only the dangerous, exhilarating certainty that this was where you were meant to be.

When the final notes faded, the room erupted in polite applause, though the whispers were louder still.

You dipped into your curtsey, breathless, and he bowed low.

"Flawless," he murmured, his lips just barely curving. "You make it easy."

Your pulse thundered in your ears. For once, you forgot to smile for the crowd. You smiled only for him.

The evening blurred into a whirl of color and sound after the dance, your card claimed and contested until your hand ached from curtseys. Yet no suitor lingered in your mind. Not the viscount who spoke of opera, nor the baron who bragged of his lands.

Only him.

Captain John Price remained in the corner of your vision long after your dance ended, a steady figure amid the shifting tide of silks and jewels. He did not seek another set, nor hover like the other men. He spoke with his companions—those curious soldiers who drew stares wherever they moved—but you could feel his gaze brush yours across the room like the faintest touch of a hand.

As the night waned and guests began to drift toward their carriages, John crossed the floor once more. He bowed, hand to his chest in soldierly precision.

"Miss," he said softly, just for you. "Thank you for the honor of your company."

Your pulse stumbled, your curtsey just shy of flawless this time. "The honor was mine, Captain."

For a heartbeat, the air between you thrummed with something unspeakable—an unvoiced promise, a question left hanging. Then Soap clapped him on the shoulder with a grin, Gaz offered a polite nod, and Ghost loomed silently, urging him toward the doors.

John inclined his head once more, his eyes steady on yours. And then he was gone, swallowed into the night with his men at his side.

You exhaled, realizing only then that your hands trembled.

Your father's keen eyes missed nothing. He said nothing at first, only offered his arm as he led you toward the carriage. But his smile was faint, knowing.

Your mother, however, was aflame. "A Captain of war?" she hissed under her breath. "A soldier? Of all the men in the room, that is the one who dares claim a dance with you? And in front of the Queen no less!"

Your brother muttered darkly, arms crossed as he strode beside you. "Mark my words, he's trouble. I'll not see you courted by a man who smells of gunpowder."

But your father only chuckled, shaking his head. "Gunpowder keeps the crown on its throne. Better a man with duty in his bones than silks in his pockets."

Your mother gasped as though he'd committed treason, but you kept silent, your cheeks still warm from a voice that lingered in your ears.

By the time you reached home, your younger sisters were waiting in the drawing room, still wide-eyed despite the lateness of the hour. They leapt to their feet the moment you entered, silk ribbons half-untied and braids falling loose.

"Well?" one squealed, clutching your sleeve.

"Who danced with you?" the other demanded. "What did the Queen say? Tell us everything!"

You laughed despite your exhaustion, sinking into the settee as they crowded close. Their eager faces reminded you of your own excitement in years past—before duty had dulled it.

"The Queen proclaimed me diamond," you admitted softly.

Their gasps echoed through the room.

"And...?" one urged, eyes bright.

"And I danced with a captain," you said before you could stop yourself. The word felt dangerous and delicious on your tongue, a secret sweeter than any title.

Your sisters squealed, giggling into their hands, while your mother, passing behind, groaned loudly enough for the entire household to hear.

Your father, settling into his chair with his pipe, only smiled to himself.

And you... you lay awake long after they had all gone to bed, the memory of strong hands and steady blue eyes burning brighter in your thoughts than the crown of diamond Lady Whistledown had placed upon your head.

Chapter Text

Dearest Reader,

What a spectacle the Season has bestowed upon us! One could hardly sip a glass of ratafia without choking on the shock of it all. For Her Majesty herself has proclaimed our newest diamond — "my interesting jewel, my diamond" — and society has not drawn breath since.

But the true scandal of the night was not the Queen's declaration. Oh no, gentle reader. It was what followed.

For who should dare claim the diamond's very first waltz, under the eyes of the Queen, but not a prince, not a duke, nor even a viscount — but a soldier.

Yes, you read correctly. A man of the King's army, his boots still kissed by mud and his manner forged on battlefields abroad. A certain Captain John Price.

Whence came this Captain? Whence his companions — those three rough-hewn figures who lurked at the edges of the ballroom, more suited to cannons than cotillions? And most curious of all: how did he dance with such startling precision, guiding our diamond as though they were the only two souls in the room?

The Queen herself, it must be noted, looked on with what can only be described as delight. Yet society's whispers are not so kind. Already, ambitious mamas quake at the thought that their carefully groomed sons were outshone by a soldier with no title, no fortune (or so the papers say), and — dare one even suggest it — no place upon such a stage.

Has our diamond been polished by cannon fire instead of candlelight? And if so, shall she shine all the brighter... or shall she crack?

As ever, my quill shall keep watch.

Yours most devotedly,
Lady Whistledown

"Read it!" Soap crowed, half-choking on laughter. "Read it aloud, Captain. Or I'll do it for ye."

John didn't move, spooning sugar into his tea with deliberate calm.

Gaz leaned over, skimming the headline, his grin spreading slow. "Oh, this is rich. Lady Whistledown herself, naming names—well, nearly. You've made print, John. And not for war."

Ghost sat at the far end of the table, gloved hands folded, unimpressed as always. "Fame suits him poorly," he muttered. "As does gossip."

Soap ignored him, snatching the paper back and reading with relish. "'A certain Captain John Price, daring to claim the diamond's first waltz... guiding her as though they were the only two souls in the room.' Saints alive, she's painted you a bloody romantic hero." He clutched his chest dramatically. "I'll swoon."

John finally set down his spoon with a sharp clink. "Enough."

But it was far from over.

Mr. Price leaned back in his chair, spectacles perched low on his nose, thoroughly delighted. "A diamond, eh? And you had her for her first waltz. My boy, you realize what that means?"

John sighed. "That Lady Whistledown needs better sources."

"That means," his father pressed on, grinning wide, "you've just outmaneuvered half the ton without lifting a blade. The Queen herself all but handed the girl to you, and you—well—you didn't drop her. Excellent form."

Soap snorted tea through his nose. Gaz nearly choked on toast. Ghost rolled his eyes.

Mr. Price wagged a finger, eyes twinkling. "So. Tell me, John—what's she like? Pretty as they say? Did she blush when you looked at her? Did you feel the floor vanish beneath your boots?"

John's jaw tightened. "She's... a lady. Polite. Graceful."

"Graceful?" Soap jeered. "You're sittin' there like a man shot through the heart, and the best you'll give us is graceful?"

Gaz smirked, shaking his head. "He's rattled, that's what he is. Look at him—he can't even drink his tea in peace."

Mr. Price chuckled warmly, unbothered by his son's scowl. "Mark my words, lad. This Season's diamond won't lack for suitors. But you've got something the rest of them don't. Steel in your spine. Fire in your belly. And, if I know my son..." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "...a heart that's already halfway gone."

John stood abruptly, chair scraping, his ears hot despite himself. "I'm going to the club."

Soap called after him, laughing, "Aye, the 'club'! Where men go to pine in peace!"

Ghost's quiet drawl followed, dry as gunpowder. "Or drink themselves stupid."

But John ignored them all, striding from the room. His father's chuckle, warm and knowing, echoed after him.

The morning room was flooded with light, though it felt far too sharp after the late hours of the ball. You had scarcely lifted your cup of tea before the household erupted around you.

Your mother sat stiff as a poker at the head of the table, the society paper clutched in white-knuckled fingers. Her fan lay discarded beside her plate, useless against the blaze of her indignation.

"Appalling," she declared, voice trembling with outrage. "Utterly appalling. The Queen proclaims you diamond, and the very first line of gossip is not about your beauty, your grace, your prospects—no. It is about that... that soldier." She shook the paper as though she might shake John Price himself out of it. "Dancing with the diamond of the Season! How dare he place himself so brazenly in the spotlight?"

Your sisters, seated halfway down the table, did not share her outrage. Their faces glowed with dreamy delight as they leaned close to one another.

"Guiding her as though they were the only two souls in the room," one quoted breathlessly, eyes shining.

"Oh, how romantic," the other sighed, clasping her hands. "A soldier, a diamond—he must have looked so dashing."

"He was," you admitted softly before you could stop yourself.

Your mother gasped. "Do not encourage this nonsense!"

Your father, hidden behind his newspaper until now, chuckled into his coffee. "I must say, I rather like it. The ton grows dull when dukes and viscounts circle the same girl like hounds at the hunt. A soldier claiming a dance? Now that is worth remembering."

"Remembering?" your mother snapped. "It is scandal! And scandal is the very thing that can ruin her."

"Scandal," your father said, folding his paper neatly, "is the very thing that keeps Lady Whistledown in ink. And yet here we are, still dining comfortably, our daughter still diamond, and our breakfast quite delicious."

Your brother entered late, still fastening his cravat, his scowl already in place. "What's this I hear about the captain in print?" He snatched the paper from your mother's grip, scanning the lines before muttering darkly. "I knew it. He's trouble."

Your mother nodded vigorously. "At last, someone with sense."

But your father's eyes flicked to you—calm, thoughtful, sharp. He saw the way your hands lingered too long on your teacup, the way your cheeks warmed despite your careful composure. He said nothing, only smiled faintly, as though he alone understood.

You stirred your tea, heartbeat quickening at the memory of smoke curling in lanternlight, of a hand steady at your waist.

And though your mother fretted and your brother fumed, though the ton surely whispered even now, one thing was certain: you were already caught in a story you did not know how to stop.

White's was thick with cigar smoke and louder with talk. Gentlemen lounged in high-backed chairs, dice clattered at gaming tables, and waiters slipped silently with brandy and port. For John, it was no battlefield, but the tension in the air was not unlike a barracks — men gathered, watching, measuring one another.

Soap was already making himself at home, slapping cards onto a table and laughing far too loudly. Gaz leaned at the bar, surveying the room with a smirk, while Ghost stalked the perimeter like a shadow no one dared confront.

John settled into a leather chair, glass of brandy in hand, when familiar voices cut through the din.

"Captain Price, is it?"

Anthony Bridgerton, Viscount himself, stood before him. Tall, stern, his reputation for duty written plainly in every line of his face. Beside him hovered Benedict, looser in posture, already smiling as though amused at the novelty of it all. Colin trailed just behind, his boyish charm softened by curiosity.

John rose, offering a respectful nod. "Gentlemen."

Anthony's brow lifted as he studied him. "A soldier, and yet you dance as though trained by the King's own tutors. You caused quite a stir last night."

"That wasn't my intention," John replied evenly.

Benedict chuckled, swirling his drink. "That is precisely why it worked. Half the room is still speaking of it. The other half wishes they had thought of it first."

Colin leaned in conspiratorially. "And Lady Whistledown has already sharpened her quill at your expense. I'd count that as a triumph."

Soap piped up from his card table, grinning ear to ear. "Aye, a triumph! The Queen herself named her diamond, and our Captain here waltzed off with her before a single duke could blink."

Anthony's gaze sharpened at that, his tone clipped. "Do you intend to pursue her, Captain?"

The question landed like a musket shot. Around them, a hush prickled the air, ears tilting subtly toward the exchange.

John set his glass down with care. "I intend," he said, voice steady, "to show respect to a lady who granted me a dance. No more, no less."

Anthony's stare held firm, searching for weakness. Finding none, he inclined his head. "See that it remains so. The ton is quick to crown — and quicker still to devour."

Benedict broke the tension with a laugh, clapping John's shoulder as though he'd known him for years. "Don't mind him, Captain. He speaks as though he's the King himself. Ignore the storm — and if you don't, at least paint it."

Colin grinned, raising his glass. "Here's to a soldier who dances better than most lords. May it not be the last time the Queen takes notice."

As they drifted away, Soap sidled up, smirk wide. "Well, Captain, looks like you've made friends. Or enemies. Hard to tell with these fancy lads."

John only sipped his brandy, eyes thoughtful. The Viscount's warning lingered, but so too did the memory of your hand in his.

Chapter Text

The breakfast table had barely been cleared when your mother declared that everyone must dress for the promenade. "The Queen has declared her diamond, and the world must see her shine," she insisted, clapping her hands for the maids. "We shall take the park, and all of London shall remember who we are."

It was less a suggestion than a royal decree.

Your father retreated behind his newspaper with a muttered, "God forbid we have a quiet day." But even he was bundled into his coat before long.

Your brother grumbled as the valet tugged his cravat into place. "Parading her about like a prize mare," he muttered. "I'll not stand for it."

"You'll stand, and you'll smile," your mother snapped. "And if you see a duke, you'll wave."

Your younger sisters, by contrast, nearly vibrated with excitement. They raced about in ribbons and bonnets, already whispering of which eligible gentlemen they hoped to glimpse, which carriages they might pass, and whether Lady Danbury herself would appear.

You, meanwhile, submitted to your mother's fussing — gown smoothed, gloves fitted, bonnet pinned just so — though your mind wandered elsewhere. Your eyes would not be searching for a duke, nor a prince, nor even a marquess.

No, you would be looking for a soldier.

Hyde Park bloomed with spring splendor, the wide promenade lined with flowering trees and the steady clop of carriage wheels. Ladies in their finest gowns strolled arm-in-arm, parasols tilted just so, while gentlemen tipped their hats and bowed at every turn.

It was a parade of vanity and ambition, of smiles too sharp and eyes too calculating. And in the very center of it all: you.

"Walk slowly," your mother hissed, tightening her grip on your arm. "Every angle must be admired."

Your brother shadowed you on the other side, eyes narrowed, scanning each passing gentleman as though preparing to repel invaders.

"Smile," your mother commanded again, as though the muscle had forgotten its use.

So you smiled. You greeted the Bridgertons, who passed in their open carriage. You dipped your head politely to Lady Danbury, who regarded you with an assessing eye that made your stomach flip. You even exchanged pleasantries with Penelope and Eloise, whose presence was a balm amid the endless string of suitors.

And yet—every few steps, your gaze flicked outward. To the edge of the crowd, to the carriages rolling by, to the men who strolled with practiced ease. Searching. Hoping.

But there was no dark coat. No steady blue eyes. No soldier.

Only whispers followed you, as persistent as shadows.

"Her Majesty's diamond..."

"...danced with a captain, can you imagine?"

"...if she marries him, it would be ruinous—unless, of course, it is love."

You lifted your chin higher, as though the sunlight itself might burn away the sting of their words.

Your sisters, walking just ahead, turned and grinned at you, one whispering, "Don't worry — he'll come again. They always do."

You smiled faintly, though your heart was heavy. The promenade was for titles, for appearances, for suitors with names carved in gold.

And yet you found yourself longing for smoke, for steady hands, for the rough grace of a soldier who had danced as though you were the only soul in the room.

You had just returned from greeting Lady Danbury when your mother's fan snapped shut with a decisive crack.

"Lord Ashworth has requested a walk," she announced, her eyes gleaming as though she had been handed a crown. "And you will oblige him. A man of such lineage does not wait."

Your brother stiffened immediately. "Ashworth? He's a pompous ass with more horses than sense."

"Horses, lands, title, and a future dukedom," your mother countered sharply. "Smile, darling. Do not waste the chance."

You swallowed your sigh and allowed Lord Ashworth to offer his arm. He was handsome enough—tall, well-dressed, with perfect posture—but his eyes were mirrors reflecting only himself.

The gravel path crunched beneath your slippers as you fell into step together. He launched immediately into a dissertation on his estate, his stables, his cellars, and his hunting dogs. He scarcely paused to let you breathe, let alone speak.

When at last he made some perfunctory inquiry, you seized the chance.

"I enjoy painting," you offered gently. "And reading, when I may. I keep a small garden in the summer—roses, mostly, though I'm trying for lavender this year."

Lord Ashworth's brows drew together as though you had spoken of mucking stables. "Ah. How quaint."

"Quaint?" you echoed.

"Harmless little diversions," he said with a dismissive flick of his gloved hand. "But truly, Lady ___, your time will not be spent on such trifles once you are settled. A wife of Ashworth does not concern herself with dirt or paints. Your purpose will be grander—hosting dinners, attending Parliament balls, bearing heirs. Far worthier than... lavender."

Heat rose in your cheeks, though you forced your smile to remain. "I see."

But inside, something twisted. The words landed not as promises of grandeur, but as shackles.

Unseen by you, two soldiers lingered at the edge of the crowd.

"Bloody hell," Soap muttered, elbowing Gaz as he squinted across the promenade. "Look at that."

"Not Soap," Gaz corrected dryly, adjusting his hat lower. "Ghost."

Ghost's eyes narrowed behind the mask, fixed on the sight of you walking beside Ashworth. "Doesn't suit her."

"You don't say," Gaz murmured. He watched you smile politely, watched Ashworth gesture broadly, oblivious to the stiffness in your posture. "He looks the type who'd frame her like a painting, hang her on the wall, and never listen to her speak again."

"Mm." Ghost's tone was flat, but dangerous.

The two exchanged a glance, unspoken understanding passing between them. Without another word, they turned and began weaving through the crowd, leaving the promenade behind.

Soap's voice drifted after them in disbelief. "You're going to tell Price, aren't you?"

Ghost didn't bother to answer. He didn't need to.

The Price townhouse was quiet save for the low crackle of a fire and the faint scrape of Mr. Price's pipe against the hearth. John sat at the desk, papers scattered before him, though his eyes had not touched a word in half an hour.

The door opened without ceremony.

"Captain."

It was Ghost, his looming figure filling the doorway. Gaz slipped in behind him, expression caught between amusement and apology. Soap followed last, grinning like he'd been waiting for a show.

John leaned back in his chair, instantly wary. "What is it?"

Gaz exchanged a look with Ghost, then said carefully, "We saw her."

John's brow furrowed. "Her?"

"The diamond," Ghost said flatly, as though the word itself were an irritant. "Walking with some lord."

John's chest tightened, though he kept his face impassive. "A walk. That's hardly scandal."

"Looked bloody miserable," Gaz added. "He was talking at her, not with her. Waving his hands like he owned the park."

Soap dropped onto the sofa with a dramatic groan. "Oh, Captain, this is your cue. If you don't get in there, some titled fool's going to snatch her up before you can blink."

John shot him a look sharp enough to silence a lesser man. Soap only grinned wider.

From his chair by the fire, Mr. Price lowered his pipe, eyes twinkling with interest. "They're right, you know."

"Father—" John began.

"No, don't 'Father' me," the older man interrupted, leaning forward with surprising vigor. "She's the diamond, boy. The diamond. Do you know what that means? Every ambitious family in London is circling. You wait too long, she'll be married off before the ink on Whistledown's next paper dries."

John's jaw tightened. "She's not some prize to be won."

"Of course not," Mr. Price said, though his smirk betrayed his delight in the drama. "But she is a woman in the ton, and women in the ton don't wait. Especially not diamonds. Not for dukes. Not for captains." He tapped his pipe against the hearthstone. "If you want her, John, you'd best start acting like it."

Soap let out a bark of laughter. "Hear that? Even your old man says get on with it."

Ghost folded his arms. "Before Ashworth or any of the others do."

Gaz leaned back against the wall, voice mild but pointed. "She deserves someone who listens. Can't say I saw much of that today."

The room fell quiet. John stared into the fire, brandy forgotten at his elbow, the image of you smiling politely at another man burning sharper than any battlefield memory.

Finally, he pushed to his feet, adjusting his cuffs with sharp, deliberate movements.

"I'll handle it," he said, voice low but certain.

And though Soap grinned, Ghost remained unreadable, and Gaz nodded once, it was Mr. Price's chuckle—proud, amused, and all too knowing—that lingered longest in the air.

Chapter Text

The household was barely stirring when the knock came. A footman appeared at the breakfast table moments later, arms straining beneath a great, extravagant bouquet — a riot of roses, orchids, and hothouse blooms so rare they must have cost a small fortune.

Your mother gasped, nearly spilling her tea. "Good heavens. Who on earth—?"

The footman presented the flowers with a bow. "For the Diamond."

Your sisters squealed in unison, nearly knocking over the jam pot as they scrambled closer.

"Read the card! Read the card!"

Your hands trembled as you slipped the small envelope free. The handwriting was strong, decisive, with no flourish or frill:

With gratitude for the dance.
— Captain John Price

Your breath caught.

"Captain?" your mother hissed, her tone laced with disbelief. "Captain Price sent these?" She clutched the edge of the table as though the flowers themselves might leap up and ruin your reputation. "What on earth is he playing at, sending such a scandalous display? Orchids! Imported orchids! This is... this is indecently expensive!"

Your sisters were already buried in the blooms, exclaiming over every shade. "Oh, they smell divine! Look at the colors—no one else will have anything like them!"

Your father peered over his paper, eyes twinkling. "Expensive, you say?" He smirked. "Good taste, then. A man who knows the worth of a gesture."

"Good taste?" your mother snapped. "Good grief! What will Whistledown write when she hears of this?"

"Likely something very entertaining," your father replied, taking another sip of coffee.

Your brother stormed in late, still fastening his waistcoat, only to stop dead at the sight of the flowers. His scowl was instant. "What's this?"

"From Captain Price," your mother declared, as though confessing a crime.

Your brother snorted. "Ridiculous. A soldier shouldn't be spending coin on orchids. He ought to be polishing his boots."

But even as your mother fretted and your brother fumed, your sisters sighed dreamily and your father chuckled, you could not stop staring at the card in your hand.

With gratitude for the dance.

Simple. Direct. Nothing like the empty flattery poured from titled mouths.

And yet, it set your heart racing more than a hundred dukes' compliments ever could.

You carried the bouquet into the drawing room yourself, ignoring your mother's protests that such things were for servants. They were too precious, too personal, to be handled by anyone but you.

The blooms were extravagant—roses deep as wine, orchids pale as moonlight, hothouse lilies that perfumed the air with a heady sweetness. You arranged them carefully in the tall vase by the window, fingers lingering on each stem as though the weight of them alone proved his sincerity.

When at last they stood proudly in their glass throne, you sank into the settee beside them with a book in your lap. Its pages remained stubbornly closed.

For your mind was not on novels.

It was on him.

The steady press of his hand against your waist as he guided you across the floor—never too firm, never too loose, always sure. The rasp of his palm through your glove, the quiet command in the curl of his fingers around yours.

You thought of his scent—smoke, brandy, leather. Not cloying perfumes or powders, but something sharper, earthier, that clung to him as naturally as his shadow.

And his beard... you had noticed it when he bowed, the way the candlelight caught at the coarse edges, the way it framed the steady line of his mouth. You wondered—scandalously, traitorously—what it might feel like against your cheek. Against your throat.

Your cheeks burned, though the room was cool. You snapped the book open at last, pretending to read, though every line blurred before your eyes.

It was madness to think this way. You were the diamond of the Season, meant for dukes and princes, not soldiers with rough hands and steady eyes.

Your mother would faint.
Lady Whistledown would feast.
Society would never forgive.

And yet, as the sunlight poured over the flowers, filling the air with their heavy perfume, you leaned your head back against the settee and let the thought take root:

That you had never felt more alive than when he held you.

You had just let out a soft sigh, the flowers perfuming the room like a secret, when the door creaked open. Then came the patter of slippers and a chorus of giggles.

Your younger sisters tumbled into the drawing room like a storm of ribbons and chatter.

"There you are!" one cried, plopping down beside you and nearly upsetting your vase. "We thought you'd locked yourself away with your soldier's bouquet."

"Captain's bouquet," the other corrected primly, climbing up on your other side. "Don't you think it's romantic? Orchids! No one else in London has orchids."

"Tell us everything," the first demanded, tugging at your sleeve. "Who danced the best? Lord Stanhope? Lord Ashworth?"

The second wrinkled her nose. "Ashworth looked like a goat in satin. Did he even smile?"

You laughed despite yourself. "He smiled at his own cufflinks, I think."

Both girls collapsed into giggles, then leaned in with wicked gleams in their eyes.

"But the captain," one whispered, voice conspiratorial. "What was he like?"

"Yes," the other pressed, "was he terribly rough? Did he step on your toes? Did he smell of powder and smoke?"

You flushed, grateful for the book in your lap to hide behind. "He was... a perfect gentleman."

"Ohhh," they chorused, exchanging knowing looks far too old for their years.

"Would you choose him?" the first asked boldly.

"Or one of the lords Mama likes?" the second added. "Which would you rather—a castle with a prince, or a captain with a beard?"

"Sssh!" You hushed them, though your laughter betrayed you. "You ought not speak so. It isn't proper."

That was precisely the moment your mother swept into the room, skirts rustling, fan snapping open in one sharp motion.

"What isn't proper?" she demanded, her sharp gaze landing on the cluster of you three.

Your sisters dissolved into giggles again, covering their mouths as they tried to hide.

Your mother's eyes narrowed. "I will not have gossip and giggling over breakfast bouquets. Your reputation is not a child's game, my dear. And as for you two—out."

The girls scampered off, still giggling, one whispering just loud enough for you to hear: "I'd pick the captain!"

Your mother pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh. "Heaven help me. Children have no sense." She flicked her fan open again, turning to you with sharp resolve. "Now then. Put the flowers where they cannot be seen from the street. The last thing we need is neighbors whispering."

You bowed your head, though as she swept from the room, your eyes drifted back to the card tucked beside the vase.

Whisper all they liked.

The flowers still bloomed.

By mid-afternoon, your mother had declared that a new gown was essential. "The diamond of the Season cannot be seen in last week's silk," she proclaimed, summoning the carriage. "Every eye is upon you. We must dazzle them anew."

Your sisters nearly tumbled over themselves in their excitement at the prospect, chattering all the way to Bond Street. Your brother came only under protest, muttering darkly about wasting coin on "fripperies," though he kept one hand resting on his cane as if prepared to fend off every fortune-hunting lord on the street.

The shop was a glittering little kingdom unto itself: bolts of fabric stacked like jewels, gowns displayed upon mannequins with delicate lace sleeves and pearl buttons, ribbons and feathers arrayed in every shade imaginable. The air smelled of starch, lavender, and ambition.

"Ah, Miss! The Diamond at last!" the modiste cried, rushing forward with a curtsy so deep her pins nearly slipped from her bodice. "How radiant you looked at the ball! The Queen's diamond — and in my gown, no less. I must insist we find something worthy of your next appearance."

You were swiftly ushered into a private parlor, fabrics unfurled before you like offerings at an altar. Your sisters pawed through the ribbons with glee, one whispering, "You must have something blue. He would like blue, don't you think?"

"Who?" your brother demanded, scowling.

"No one," she sang, batting her lashes.

Your mother ignored them all, clapping her hands for the richest satins and the most daring cuts. "It must be unforgettable. Perhaps a train long enough to make a duchess jealous."

You sat before the mirror as gowns were draped against your frame, though your eyes did not linger on the silks. Instead, you thought of calloused hands against your waist, of smoke and leather and the scent of brandy. You thought of a bouquet rare enough to make even your mother's lips purse.

"Something in ivory, perhaps?" the modiste chirped, holding up a gown with delicate pearl beading.

"Ivory is for brides," your brother barked.

Your mother's fan snapped open, her smile sharp. "And what if it were?"

The room buzzed with laughter and scandal, though your cheeks warmed for reasons none of them guessed.

At last, you chose a gown of deep sapphire silk, its neckline modest yet daring in how it set your skin aglow. The color brought out your eyes, the modiste declared, and it would surely make every gentleman look twice.

Your sisters clapped in delight, your mother sighed in triumph, your brother groaned.

And you? You smoothed the fabric over your lap, heart racing with a thought you dared not voice:

That you wanted a certain Captain to be the one who saw it first.

The dining room at the Price townhouse was warm with candlelight and pipe smoke, the heavy oak table spread with roast beef, potatoes, and a decanter of claret that had already made the rounds.

John sat across from his father, knife and fork idle against his plate. Soap was halfway through his second helping, Gaz was content to drink more than he ate, and Ghost remained his quiet, watchful self.

It was Mr. Price who steered the conversation, as he always did. "Flowers delivered?" he asked casually, as though discussing the weather.

John's jaw ticked. "They were."

Soap nearly choked on his wine, thumping the table with glee. "They were! A houseful of orchids, no less! Half the ton will be sniffin' round her door now, trying to match you petal for petal."

"Better hope Whistledown doesn't make a mockery of it," Gaz added with a smirk. "Though I suppose that would only make you more famous."

Ghost gave a low grunt. "Flowers are fine. But flowers aren't enough."

Mr. Price leaned forward, pipe smoke curling around his grin. "Simon is right. Orchids make an impression. But impressions fade, John. If you're serious—"

John's eyes cut to his father, sharp. "I never said I was."

"Didn't need to," Mr. Price replied smoothly. He tapped the bowl of his pipe against the hearthstone and looked his son dead in the eye. "I know that look. Same one your mother gave me after our first dance."

Soap whistled low, delighted.

Mr. Price went on, relentless. "If you mean to settle, it will be with her. And if not—walk away now before you tangle yourself into a scandal. But mark my words, boy..." He tapped the table with each phrase, the cadence of command. "...diamonds don't wait. Not for dukes. Not for captains. Not for anyone."

John's hand tightened around his glass. "You expect me to fight off half of London with nothing more than a glance, a balcony conversation, and a dance?"

"I expect you," Mr. Price said firmly, "to follow the rules of the ton if you mean to court her. You'll call on her. Properly. You'll sit with her in her family's drawing room. You'll dance with her again under the Queen's eye. And if you want her, you'll make it known before another man does."

He leaned back with a satisfied puff of smoke. "That's how it's done, son. Been done that way for centuries. Even Whistledown has the decency to keep the receipts—I've got her papers going back three seasons, and every scandal starts the same way. Hesitate, and you lose."

Soap laughed so hard he nearly fell from his chair. "The old man's a bloody Whistledown historian! Saints above, Captain, you don't stand a chance."

Gaz smirked into his glass. "He's not wrong, though. You've already set the stage. Best step into it before someone else takes your part."

John set down his claret with deliberate care, staring at the candles flickering in their silver stands. His father's words grated, but beneath the meddling was truth he could not ignore.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and certain. "If I court anyone this Season... it will be her."

The room quieted, even Soap sobered for a moment. Ghost's gaze flicked toward him, unreadable.

Mr. Price smiled, slow and knowing, like a general watching his son finally march in step. "Then call on her. Properly. Tomorrow."

John exhaled, tugging at his cuff. He knew the rules. He knew the risk.

And for the first time in years, he found himself almost eager for the battlefield ahead.

Chapter Text

The morning sun crept through the curtains of John's chamber, though he had been awake long before it. Years of soldier's discipline refused to bend, even in peacetime, even in London. But today his restlessness had little to do with habit and everything to do with orchids and the memory of your hand in his.

He shaved carefully, trimmed his beard with the same precision he gave a bayonet, and polished his boots until they caught the light. His uniform lay folded in the trunk, but today he wore a dark morning coat, cravat knotted neat, waistcoat pressed within an inch of its life. He looked every inch the gentleman his father insisted he play — though the man in the mirror still had a soldier's eyes.

The door creaked open.

"Saints above," Soap drawled from the threshold, grinning wide. "Would you look at him? Captain's courting boots polished so bright I could see my own face."

"Out," John muttered, tugging on his gloves.

Instead of leaving, Soap swaggered in, inspecting him as though he were a prize stallion. "Razor trim, clean coat, starch on the cravat... Aye, you're about to knock some poor lass flat." He clutched his chest dramatically. "If she doesn't swoon, I bloody well might."

"Do you ever tire of your own voice?" Ghost's low rumble filled the doorway as he appeared, arms crossed, mask in place. His gaze swept John once, sharp and assessing. "You're rattled."

"I'm not rattled."

Gaz strolled in behind them, leaning casually against the bedpost. "You're rattled. Don't worry, mate, we'll keep the wolves off your back. Can't have you fainting in the lady's drawing room."

John shot him a look that made Gaz chuckle.

From the hallway, Mr. Price's voice carried in, rich with amusement. "Is my boy ready, then? Boots shined? Hair combed? Cravat respectable?"

"Looks like a bloody prince," Soap reported, winking.

"A prince who scowls too much," Gaz added.

Mr. Price appeared, pipe already lit, eyes twinkling as he looked his son over. "Good. Because calling on a lady isn't a battlefield, John. It's worse."

John groaned under his breath. "I'm only paying respects. Nothing more."

"Nonsense," his father said firmly, puffing his pipe. "You're courting. You'll sit in her family's drawing room, endure her mother's questions, her brother's glare, and you'll still manage to charm her sisters. You'll prove to her father you've got more to offer than a uniform and a steady hand." He smirked. "And you'll dance with her again, soon. That is how it's done."

Soap elbowed Ghost with a grin. "Think we ought to follow him? Be sure he doesn't get eaten alive?"

"Don't," John snapped, tugging his coat into place. "You're not coming. Any of you."

"Shame," Gaz murmured, smirk lingering. "Would've liked to see the diamond in her natural habitat."

John shoved past them toward the door, his shoulders squared, his stride purposeful. He could march into cannon fire without blinking — but for the first time in years, his pulse quickened not at the thought of battle, but at the prospect of knocking on a lady's door.

Sunlight spilled through the curtains, dappling your chamber in gold. The first thing your eyes found was not the gown laid across the chair nor the book left half-read on your nightstand — it was the flowers.

The bouquet now lived in pride of place upon your dressing table, moved there under the cover of night so that they were the first thing you would see each morning. Roses, orchids, lilies — still as vibrant and intoxicating as when they had arrived.

You stretched beneath the coverlet, the memory of the card sending your pulse fluttering all over again. With gratitude for the dance. Such simple words, yet they rang louder in your heart than all of last night's titles and fortunes combined.

A knock at the door, and then your maid bustled in, carrying a tray of tea. Her eyes flicked to the flowers and back to you, her smile far too knowing. "They're holding up well, my lady."

You arched a brow. "The flowers?"

"The flowers," she repeated with deliberate sweetness, setting the tray down. "Most bouquets wilt in a night. These look as though they'll last an age. Perhaps their sender chose well."

You pretended to study your teacup, but your cheeks warmed all the same.

It wasn't long before the whirlwind arrived — your sisters tumbling through the door in a flurry of ribbons and chatter, as though breakfast could not possibly begin without your attention.

"Are you still staring at them?" one squealed, rushing to the vase.

"Of course she is," the other teased, lifting an orchid carefully as though it were a crown jewel. "If a man sent me flowers like this, I'd sleep with them beside my pillow."

You groaned, tugging your dressing gown tighter. "You are incorrigible."

They ignored you entirely, plopping onto the edge of your bed.

"So tell us," one demanded, "if you had to choose today — the captain or Lord Ashworth?"

"Or Lord Stanhope," the other added wickedly, "though I suppose his horses would have to come, too."

Your maid smothered a laugh, excusing herself quickly, and left you at the mercy of your sisters.

You tried to hold your composure. "I am not choosing anyone. It is improper to speak of such. I haven't even been offered a proposal."

They squealed anyway, already arguing on your behalf. "The captain, of course. He danced as though she were the only one in the room."

"No, the prince who may yet arrive! Mama would faint with joy."

"Not Stanhope," they chorused together, dissolving into laughter.

At last, your mother's sharp voice rang from the hall: "Girls! Leave your sister be. She mustn't look weary  — or worse, flustered!"

Your sisters scampered out, still giggling, one calling back over her shoulder, "At least put a flower in your hair, so he knows you liked them!"

You sank into your chair at the vanity, staring at the blooms once more as the maid laced your gown. The thought pressed at you with delicious weight: Would he call today? Would he knock upon your very door?

And if he did... would your heart withstand it?

You stood at your vanity, smoothing the sleeves of your morning gown as the maid hovered nearby. The flowers filled the room with their heavy perfume — too much, perhaps, for a lady to endure all day without drawing suspicion.

"Move them to the drawing room again," you told her lightly. "Beside the windows, where everyone can admire them."

The maid grinned as though you had handed her a scandal. "At once, my lady."

Moments later, a footman appeared with the post. Among the neatly stacked letters was the latest folded sheet of cream paper, its edges still faintly damp with ink.

"Lady Whistledown's Society Papers," he announced, bowing as he set it on the sideboard.

Your mother swept in just as you reached for it. "Ah! Give it here at once."

She unfolded it with the air of a general reading battle orders.

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

Dearest Reader,

This author had scarcely sharpened her quill when a sight most rare and most costly arrived upon the stoop of our newly crowned diamond. A bouquet, dear reader, but not merely roses — no, a veritable explosion of orchids and lilies, imported at a cost that would make even a duke hesitate.

And the sender? Not a prince, not a marquess, not even a viscount. A captain.

Yes, Captain John Price, the very same who dared claim the diamond's first waltz beneath the Queen's eye, has now sent his regards in the form of flowers so extravagant that even the air of Mayfair seems perfumed by them.

What does this mean, I wonder? Is it a soldier's bold advance, heedless of propriety? Or the beginnings of a tale that might scandalize all of London? This author will, of course, keep her eyes very wide open.

Yours most devotedly,
Lady Whistledown

By the time you entered the breakfast room, the paper was already the subject of debate.

Your father peered over his spectacles, smiling faintly. "Price has good taste. Not every man would think beyond roses."

"Not every man would waste such coin on hothouse blooms," your mother snapped, fanning herself with the very paper. "Whistledown will ruin us yet. Imagine the gossip — orchids from a soldier!"

Your brother groaned as though the world had ended. "It's indecent. He might as well have carved his name across our front door. Everyone in London will know before luncheon."

One of your sisters leaned forward eagerly. "But isn't it romantic? A captain sending orchids! Far more daring than Stanhope with his horses."

The other chimed in, "Or Ashworth with his cufflinks. Honestly, I'd rather have orchids."

Your father chuckled, taking another bite of toast. "I agree with your sisters. Better a man who thinks of flowers than one who thinks only of himself."

"Papa!" your mother protested. "This is not a jest. She is the diamond. A dozen lords will call within the week. We cannot let them think her affections already bought by a soldier."

All eyes turned to you.

You lifted your cup of tea, letting the silence stretch before you spoke. "Perhaps it is not so scandalous to send flowers. Men court with words every day. Flowers are only... prettier."

Your sisters giggled into their hands.

Your brother scowled. "Prettier, yes. But dangerous. Do not be taken in, sister. The man wears a beard, for God's sake."

You set down your cup, your voice sharper now. "And what, pray, does a beard have to do with a kind gesture?"

That silenced the table for half a breath before your father laughed outright. "She has you there, son."

Your mother sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple. "Heaven save me from stubborn children. Orchids yesterday... what today? A visit to the house? A calling card?"

Her fan fluttered furiously, though your heart quickened at the very thought.

"If he does," you said quietly, "it would hardly be unseemly. A gentleman is permitted to call."

Your sisters squealed. Your brother groaned. Your father hid a smile behind his paper.

And you, heart thrumming, wondered if even now the Captain was dressing his boots, readying himself to knock upon your door.

Breakfast ended in its usual storm of chatter and argument. Your sisters darted off to their sewing, still giggling about orchids and soldiers; your brother stalked toward the stables, muttering about chasing off "hounds in waistcoats."

Your father retreated behind his paper once more, while your mother remained at the table, still fluttering her fan and sighing like a martyr.

You lingered a moment longer, heart drumming with a secret hope. If Whistledown's quill had been so quick, perhaps Captain Price's boots would be quicker still. Perhaps even now, the sound of wheels on gravel, the knock at the door—

A knock did sound. Sharp, decisive.

You startled, tea cup trembling in its saucer.

A footman entered, bowing. "A caller for you, Miss."

Your heart leapt. You rose too quickly, smoothing your gown, cheeks already warm. The drawing room was prepared, the flowers placed just so. You moved with barely contained anticipation—

And stopped dead when the caller was announced.

"Lord Ashworth."

He entered with all the pomp of a man quite certain of his own importance, bowing deeply, his waistcoat gleaming with embroidery.

Your excitement drained in an instant, replaced with the dull weight of resignation.

"My Lady," he said, voice syrupy with self-satisfaction. "I trust you are well after our promenade? I could not resist calling, to ensure you had recovered from the exertion."

"Exertion?" you echoed, forcing a smile.

"Why yes," he said, puffing his chest. "So many eyes upon you. So much attention. It must be terribly taxing. Fortunately, I have ample experience in such matters and would be delighted to advise you on navigating society's gaze."

Behind you, your sisters peeked through the doorway, trying and failing to stifle their laughter. Your mother's eyes shone with triumph. "Lord Ashworth! How very kind of you to call."

Your father barely concealed his sigh as he set aside his paper.

And you, standing beside the glorious bouquet sent by another man, wondered how long courtesy required you to endure Lord Ashworth's dull, droning voice—when all you truly longed for was the sound of boots upon the step again.

The drawing room had never felt so stifling. Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, glinting off the polished piano, the vase of orchids, and Lord Ashworth's too-white teeth as he smiled with the complacency of a man certain he was doing you a great favor simply by existing.

Your mother presided from the settee, fan fluttering, her eyes sparkling with triumph. "My daughter plays beautifully, Lord Ashworth. You must hear her. A true diamond must shine in all things, and music is no exception."

You stiffened, fingers tightening in your skirts. "Mama—"

"Yes, darling," she pressed, her voice sweet but unyielding. "Do oblige us. Something light. Perhaps Mozart."

Lord Ashworth beamed. "Ah, the piano! An admirable skill for a lady, though of course it pales before the duties of hosting and family. Still—yes, do play."

Your sisters exchanged mischievous glances, one mouthing poor thing behind her hand. Your father sighed into his pipe, while your brother muttered something unprintable under his breath.

Still, you moved to the piano, settling upon the bench. Your fingers found the keys out of habit, coaxing a soft melody into the air. The notes filled the room, delicate and precise — though your heart was nowhere in it. You played for duty, for expectation, not for joy.

Lord Ashworth clapped politely when you finished. "Charming," he declared. "Quite charming. Your talents will serve you well in... quieter moments."

You bit back a retort, but your brother muttered audibly, "Insufferable."

"Now, now," your mother said, smoothing the air with her fan. "There is much more to discuss than music." She leaned forward, her tone brimming with excitement. "Our family keeps a summer estate in the countryside. Lovely grounds, wide lawns, and a hall that would do marvelously for entertaining. It would be the perfect setting for a ball to honor the diamond of the Season."

Lord Ashworth's eyes gleamed. "How splendid. A country ball — less crowded, more select. You would, of course, invite the best families."

"And the most eligible gentlemen," your mother added, her gaze flicking meaningfully to you.

Your sisters muffled giggles.
Your father groaned.
Your brother glared.

And you sat, still at the piano, hands folded in your lap, your smile polite and thin as parchment. All the while, the orchids bloomed beside the window, their scent reminding you with every breath of the man who had sent them — a man far from this drawing room, yet nearer to your heart than any lord in London.

Lord Ashworth was mid-sentence — something about his plans for importing a new breed of hunting dog, as if it were the most thrilling news in the world — when the sharp knock came at the front door.

Your heart skipped. You knew it. Before the footman even entered, you knew.

"Another caller?" your mother said brightly, smoothing her skirts. "At this hour?"

The footman bowed, voice careful. "Captain John Price."

The room froze.

Your sisters gasped in unison, nearly spilling embroidery across the floor. Your brother groaned into his hand. Your father lowered his pipe, a smile tugging at his lips.

And you... you felt heat rise to your cheeks, delight sparking sharp and dangerous in your chest.

"Captain Price," your mother said after a long beat, voice tight with disapproval. "How very unexpected. You must inform him that she is already engaged with company and may not receive him at present."

"Now, now," your father interrupted, rising to his feet before the footman could retreat. His voice was genial, but firm as iron. "We shouldn't turn a gentleman away at the door. Especially not one who's taken the trouble to call properly."

"Properly?" your mother hissed, her fan snapping open.

"Proper enough," your father replied, eyes glinting. "And truth be told, I've already heard far too much of Lord Ashworth's future plans for my daughter." He gave Ashworth a look that was polite, but final.

Lord Ashworth's jaw worked, caught between indignation and propriety. He rose reluctantly, bowing stiffly. "If you will excuse me, my lady. Captain."

You dipped your head, the smile tugging at your lips betraying your satisfaction.

Moments later, John Price stepped into the room. His dark morning coat was perfectly cut, his boots gleaming, his beard trimmed. He bowed low, first to your father, then to your mother, finally to you.

"My Lady," he said, voice deep and steady, "forgive the intrusion. I had hoped to pay my respects."

Your mother fluttered her fan furiously, cheeks pink with scandal. Your sisters barely contained their squeals. Your brother glared as though preparing for a duel.

But your father smiled, gesturing toward the empty chair opposite you. "The timing is impeccable, Captain. Do sit. I should very much like to hear what you have to say."

And for the first time all morning, you felt your heart truly lift.

Captain John Price settled into the chair beside you with surprising ease, his broad frame somehow fitting into the delicate world of lace and embroidery. His presence was steady, grounding, though the nearness of him sent your pulse fluttering.

Your father leaned forward, pipe set aside, eyes bright with curiosity. "So, Captain, I hear you served abroad. Spain, was it? Or further?"

"Further," John replied, voice calm, polite. "Campaigns across the continent. My regiment was often at sea."

"Ah, the sea," your father mused. "A hard life, no doubt. And yet you dance like a man born to it."

A faint smile tugged at John's lips. "Practice, sir. And good partners."

Your cheeks warmed, and your sisters squeezed each other's hands, their eyes wide as saucers.

"Dancing and war," your mother cut in sharply, her fan snapping. "But tell me, Captain, what knowledge does a soldier carry for society? For hosting? For managing estates, staff, children?"

John's gaze shifted to her, steady, unflinching. "A soldier learns discipline, my lady. Order. Responsibility. He learns to listen when it matters most. And to fight for what he values."

Your father chuckled under his breath. "Sounds like a man fit for a household."

Your brother muttered darkly, "Or a battlefield."

John did not rise to the bait. Instead, he turned slightly toward you, his eyes softening. "And you, Miss — what do you value most in your days?"

You blinked, surprised at being asked directly. Your mind scrambled past every rote answer drilled into you by your mother. At last, you found your voice. "I like to paint," you admitted. "And to garden. I read when I can." You glanced down, then dared to add, "It may not sound grand, but... I like to make things grow."

His expression warmed, genuine. "Then that's hardly trifling. The world could use more things that grow."

Your sisters sighed so loudly that your brother groaned, slumping in his chair.

"Play something," your mother cut in quickly, unwilling to let the moment linger. "The captain should hear you at the piano."

For once, you did not resist. "Gladly," you said, rising with careful composure.

Your fingers found the keys, coaxing a melody softer than before. Not duty this time, but something more personal — lilting and warm. When you glanced up, John was watching, not with polite attention but with quiet reverence, as though each note mattered.

When the last chord faded, he inclined his head. "Beautiful. You've a gift."

"Only practice," you murmured.

"Practice doesn't give music heart," he replied.

Your mother cleared her throat loudly. "A captain may appreciate music, but marriage requires much more than admiration of gardens and pianos."

Your father chuckled, unbothered. "True. It requires patience. And the ability to endure one's in-laws. Both of which, I daresay, the Captain has already proven today."

Your sisters burst into laughter. Even your brother cracked a reluctant smile.

And you, seated once more, felt your nerves ease just a little, warmed by the simple fact that John Price had not only dared step into your drawing room — he had stayed, spoken, and held his ground.

The drawing room held the hush of civility, broken only by the faint ticking of the mantel clock. Lord Ashworth's absence had left the air blessedly lighter, though your mother still perched rigid as a hawk, fan snapping every few minutes as if to remind the Captain of his place.

Your brother rose abruptly, his scowl unchanged. "I'll leave you to your entertainment. A man can only endure so much idle chatter before he craves the club."

"Don't stay out past supper," your father said mildly, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his relief at the boy's departure.

The door shut, and the atmosphere shifted again — freer somehow, though your mother's fan never stilled.

John sat near you still, his broad frame filling the delicate chair as though it had been built for him alone. His gaze lingered on the vase of orchids by the window, their blooms catching the light like jewels.

"They arrived safely, then," he said, his voice quiet enough that the words felt meant for you alone.

You inclined your head, nerves fluttering, but met his eyes. "They did. Thank you, Captain. They are... extraordinary."

A smile ghosted across his mouth, hidden by the beard. "You deserve nothing less."

Before you could answer, one of your sisters burst out, unable to contain herself. "She took them to her room last night!" she announced with glee. "Placed them right on her dressing table so she could open her eyes and see them first thing this morning."

The other sister gasped, clutching her arm. "You weren't supposed to tell!"

Heat flooded your cheeks. "Girls—!"

John's eyes widened, then softened with unmistakable warmth, a laugh hidden low in his chest.

Your mother gasped, horrified, snapping her fan shut with a crack. "That is quite enough! Out with you both — this instant!"

The girls dissolved into giggles as they scampered from the room, their voices trailing down the hall: "She did, she did! Orchids in her chambers!"

You pressed your hands into your skirts, willing the flush from your cheeks. "You must forgive them, Captain. They are insufferable pests."

"Not pests," John said gently, his voice pitched low so your mother's sharp ears might miss it. "Honest." His gaze caught yours then, steady and certain. "And flattering."

Your heart tripped, caught between nerves and delight.

Your mother, flustered, bustled to her feet. "Well, it seems my daughters cannot remember their manners. Captain Price, perhaps you would—"

"Stay a moment longer," your father interrupted smoothly, leaning back in his chair, pipe smoke curling lazily around his grin. "A gentleman caller should not be rushed, and I, for one, would hear more of his stories. Unless, of course, he objects?"

John's eyes flicked from father to you. His answer was steady. "I don't object."

Your mother's fan snapped open again, but her protests faltered against your father's firm amusement and the faint, undeniable smile tugging at your lips.

And so the Captain remained, seated in your drawing room, with the orchids blooming behind you and the weight of the ton's rules pressing close — but not close enough to snuff out the spark between you.

The drawing room quieted again once your sisters had been chased off, leaving only the three of you and the ticking clock.

Your father leaned forward, puffing at his pipe. "Tell me, Captain, what of your men? The ones who stood with you at the ball — they did not look the sort to take easily to satin."

John's mouth curved, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "No, sir. They're soldiers through and through. Loyal. Steady. Each of them would take a musket ball for the other without hesitation."

Your father hummed, pleased. "That kind of loyalty's worth more than any dowry."

Your mother fanned herself furiously in the corner, muttering something about dowries and scandalous topics.

Before the conversation could go further, a maid appeared in the doorway with a curtsy. "My lady, the modiste is expecting you this hour."

You sighed, rising reluctantly. "Yes. Of course."

Your mother was on her feet at once, bustling toward you. "Yes, yes, gowns must be seen to. Diamonds must shine. Come along, girls!" She herded your sisters like wayward lambs, leaving you to pause by the door.

John stood, bowing properly, but his eyes were fixed on yours with a steadiness that made your heart thrum.

"Thank you for calling, Captain," you said softly, almost breathlessly. "And for the flowers. They are... treasured."

His voice dropped, deep and low. "It was my honor. And my intention to return. Soon."

Something in his tone — the quiet certainty of it — made your breath catch. For once, you did not shy away, did not lower your gaze. You let him see the truth in your eyes, the heat rising in your chest.

Your father coughed deliberately, though there was amusement in it. "Go on now, daughter. The modiste waits."

You curtsied, more flustered than any dance had ever left you, and let your mother shepherd you from the room. Still, you felt John's gaze follow you — steady, anchoring, impossible to shake.

When the door shut, the room was left in silence, save for the faint creak of your father settling back in his chair. He regarded John with sharp eyes that missed little.

"Sit, Captain," he said at last. "A word in private, if you've time."

John obeyed, steady as ever, though he braced himself for the real battle.

Your father tapped his pipe against the hearthstone. "You've proven yourself a man of discipline and courage. That much is clear. But society is not a battlefield, and marriage is no campaign. Tell me —what are your views on it?"

John's hands rested against his knees, broad and steady. "Marriage should be a partnership, sir. Built on respect. On listening. A man should provide, yes, but more than coin or roof — he should provide constancy."

Your father's eyes gleamed. "And children?"

John's jaw softened, his voice dropping. "They deserve protection. Patience. And a father who shows up every day, no matter how the world turns."

There was a pause.

"And estates?" your father pressed.

John allowed himself a faint smile. "I've managed troops and supply chains that would shame a small country. If given the chance, I can manage land. But an estate isn't walls or fields, sir. It's the people inside it. That's what I'd see tended."

Your father leaned back, studying him for a long, silent moment. Then a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"Well said, Captain. Very well said."

John inclined his head, but inside, the fire had already caught. Orchids and music and the memory of your eyes as you left — and the unmistakable approval glinting in your father's smile.

For the first time, the path ahead didn't feel like a battlefield.

It felt like destiny.

Chapter Text

The air outside struck cool against your flushed cheeks as you stepped from the house. The footman opened the carriage door, and you climbed in, heart still thundering. The scent of orchids seemed to cling to you, as if you had carried it with you into the world.

You sank onto the seat, gloves twisting in your lap. Never in all your carefully rehearsed seasons, in all your mother's lessons about posture and smile, had you felt this warm before. It was not the warmth of candlelight or gowns. It was the warmth of him — of steady eyes and a voice pitched low, of words that made your heart beat as though it would break free.

Improper flashes darted through your mind unbidden — the kind whispered of in hushed corners of parlors, the rumors that ladies dismissed with laughter but thought of still. His hand guiding you too firmly across the dance floor. That beard brushing your cheek as he leaned close to murmur in your ear. That same steadiness, not in battle nor in a drawing room, but—

You pressed a hand to your neck, horrified at yourself, cheeks blazing.

Your sisters were oblivious to your inner turmoil. They were a chorus of giggles on the opposite seat, nearly bouncing with delight.

"Did you see him look at her?" one squealed.

"As if she were the only lady in the room!" the other chimed in. "No, in the world!"

You groaned softly, trying to hide behind your fan.

Your mother, seated ramrod-straight with her fan already snapping, clucked her tongue. "Compose yourselves, all of you. Do not giggle like tavern maids. We are ladies, not fools. The eyes of Mayfair are already on us, and I will not have our carriage rattling down Bond Street like a cage of hens."

That only made your sisters giggle harder, leaning against each other, whispering, "Cage of hens!"

You turned your face to the window, watching the tidy houses give way to the bustle of town. Shoppers thronged, modistes' windows glittered with lace and silk, and you tried to fix your thoughts on fabric swatches instead of calloused hands.

But even as the carriage turned into Bond Street, you could still feel him near — as though the memory of his voice, his eyes, his quiet certainty had followed you all the way into town.

And heaven help you, you did not want to shake it.

The carriage pulled to a graceful stop before the glittering windows of the modiste's shop. Mannequins draped in pale silks and gauzy muslins smiled serenely at the bustling crowd outside, as though they did not know half of London was already whispering about you.

The footman opened the door, and your mother descended first, regal as a queen, your sisters spilling after her in a flurry of giggles. You followed last, cheeks still warm, bonnet tied neatly beneath your chin, posture perfect — though inside, you were trembling like a debutante on her first curtsey.

The little bell above the door tinkled as you entered, and the modiste herself came rushing forward with a delighted cry. "Ah, the diamond, how radiant you look. And so soon after your triumph at the ball!"

Several heads turned — a cluster of ladies already inside, fabrics draped over their arms, fans snapping open like wings. Among them, Penelope Featherington, who brightened instantly at the sight of you.

She hurried over, her eyes shining with excitement. "You must tell me everything," she whispered as she drew you into a quieter corner. "The flowers — everyone's talking of them — and now this morning's Whistledown!"

You pressed a hand to your lips, suppressing a laugh. "You've heard already?"

"Heard?" Penelope whispered fiercely. "It is all anyone hears! Orchids, of all things. No lord would dare. Only a man either reckless or..." Her eyes sparkled. "...very much in earnest."

You leaned closer, your voice dropping further. "He came to call this morning. Properly. Sat in our drawing room."

Penelope's eyes went wide, her fan fluttering. "No!"

"Yes," you admitted, the flush rising to your cheeks again. "My father welcomed him, though my mother nearly fainted. And my sisters..." You groaned softly. "They told him I had carried the flowers into my bedroom."

Penelope clapped her fan over her mouth, half to hide her gasp, half to conceal her delighted smile. "This is better than any novel. A Captain — and the diamond! You do realize, if Whistledown herself didn't already know, she will by sundown?"

"I should not be so pleased," you whispered, though your lips betrayed the smile you tried to hide.

Penelope squeezed your arm. "But you are. And so am I."

From across the shop, your mother's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Darling! Do come — the modiste has the most splendid new silk for your next gown!"

You straightened quickly, smoothing your skirts, though your pulse still raced. As you rejoined your family at the fitting mirror, Penelope's grin lingered in the corner of your vision, bright and knowing.

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to wonder: perhaps Lady Whistledown would not need to invent this story at all.

The townhouse door shut behind him with a heavy click, muting the bustle of the street. John tugged at his gloves, shoulders still tight from the morning — though not with battle, nor with duty. No, it was something else entirely that left his pulse unsteady.

The drawing room. Your father's questions. The music you played. The warmth in your eyes when you thanked him for the flowers.

He had not been rattled like this in years.

The quiet broke with a deliberate cough.

"You took your time."

His father sat in the high-backed chair by the fire, pipe smoldering, papers folded on his knee. He looked every inch the man who had been waiting — watching — for his son's return.

John raised a brow. "You've been sitting here all morning?"

Mr. Price tapped his pipe, unbothered. "Since you left. How did it go?"

John exhaled, tugging off his coat and tossing it over the arm of a chair. "Fine."

"Fine," his father echoed, unimpressed. "My boy calls upon the diamond of the Season — sits in her family's drawing room with half the ton's eyes on him — and all I get is fine?"

John ran a hand through his hair. "Her sisters were... excitable. Her mother's sharp as a blade. Her father's cleverer still." He paused. "But she..." His voice softened. "She was gracious."

Mr. Price leaned forward, eyes narrowing shrewdly. "And did she smile for you? Not the smile she gives dukes and barons, but one meant for you?"

John hesitated — which was answer enough.

His father's grin spread slowly, satisfied. "I knew it. Knew it the moment I saw the way you looked at her at that ball. A Price doesn't lose his head over every pretty girl. But this one... eh, you're halfway gone already."

John scowled, reaching for the decanter. "I've known her for a glance, a dance, a morning in a drawing room."

"And orchids," Mr. Price added slyly. "Don't forget the orchids. All of London's chattering about them."

John poured himself a drink, muttering, "Let them chatter."

His father chuckled, puffing on his pipe. "Oh, my boy, they will. They always do. But chatter dies quick if a man proves himself. Now tell me, son — are you planning to prove yourself? Or do I need to start writing the courtship rules down for you?"

John downed his drink in one swallow, staring into the fire. The warmth in his chest had nothing to do with brandy.

Finally, he muttered, "I'll call again."

His father's laugh filled the room, rich and proud. "That's my boy."

White's was buzzing as always — cigars, brandy, and the endless hum of gossip disguised as conversation. Your brother, however, brought no charm to the table. He slammed his glass onto the polished oak with a scowl that had already darkened half the room.

Anthony Bridgerton arched a brow from his chair nearby, Benedict lounging beside him, Colin stirring his drink with lazy curiosity. They had grown used to your brother's moods, but today's thundercloud was a storm in earnest.

"Another lord lost a hand at cards?" Benedict asked dryly.

"Worse," your brother muttered. "A soldier."

Anthony's brow furrowed. "A soldier?"

"Yes," your brother snapped. "A captain. Bold as brass. Walks into our drawing room this very morning and sits himself down as though he were a duke! And my father — my father, mind you — welcomes him."

Colin perked up. "Captain John Price, is it not? The one from the ball?" His grin was positively wicked. "Whistledown has already filled two pages with him. Everyone's talking."

Your brother groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Don't remind me. Orchids! Imported orchids! What business has a soldier sending my sister flowers rarer than a prince's jewels?"

Benedict chuckled. "Sounds rather more poetic than half the men in this club."

"It sounds like trouble," Anthony said, voice clipped, his protective streak flaring. "If the Queen has made your sister diamond, then her reputation must be guarded above all else. Any misstep—"

"Exactly!" your brother interrupted, pointing his glass toward Anthony with vigor. "And yet she... she smiled at him. Smiled as though the sun rose for his sake. I'll not have it."

Colin leaned back, smirking. "Then you'll be very busy indeed, for the entire Season, fending him off. If he's half as steady as they say, I don't think he'll be frightened by your frown."

Anthony, ever the voice of stern reason, set down his glass. "If the man is serious, he will prove himself properly. Calling, courting, offering respect. If he does not..." He shrugged. "Then it will die out soon enough. The ton is fickle."

Benedict's eyes gleamed. "But if he is serious? Then you'll have to decide whether you'd rather duel him — or toast him at the wedding."

Your brother's groan was loud enough to turn heads across the room.

Evening had settled over the Price townhouse, lamps lit and supper cleared away. John sat in his study, coat unbuttoned, nursing a glass of brandy when the door banged open without warning.

Soap breezed in first, smirk wide, Gaz following with a slower, steadier stride. Ghost was nowhere to be seen — which was often the case.

"You'll never guess who we ran into," Soap announced cheerfully, flopping into a chair with no invitation. "Your lady's brother, drunk on brandy and foul on temper."

John's jaw tightened. "Where?"

"White's," Gaz supplied. He poured himself a drink without asking, leaning against the mantel. "He's been running his mouth. Loudly. Complaining that you've set your cap for his sister. Orchids this, dancing that. Half the room's heard it by now."

Soap grinned. "Called you bold as brass, he did. Said he'd have to fight off every soldier in England to keep his sister respectable."

John set his glass down with a sharp clink. "He said that?"

"Oh, aye," Soap replied, amused. "He doesn't like you one bit, Captain. Which, I daresay, means you've already done something right."

Gaz was more sober. "Anthony Bridgerton was there. Took it all in. Word'll spread quick. If you're serious about her, John, you'd best be ready to prove it."

John leaned back, rubbing a hand over his beard, his thoughts circling. He had expected resistance — from her mother, perhaps, from the ton in general. But a brother at the gentlemen's club? That could turn whispers into weapons.

Soap raised his glass with a cheeky grin. "Well, Captain? What's the plan? Ignore it, duel him, or send another bloody bouquet until the man chokes on orchids?"

John didn't answer. His mind was already on you — your eyes at the piano, your soft thank-you in the doorway — and on the storm rising around you both.

"I'll handle it," he said at last, voice low, firm, certain.

And for once, Soap didn't laugh.

The Queen sat in her private chamber, silks and jewels discarded for the evening, her wig resting lopsided on a stand. In her hand was the latest Whistledown, already smudged from how many times she had folded and refolded it.

She tapped the column with her fan, lips pursed. "Orchids," she muttered. "A soldier sends orchids to my diamond."

Brimsley shifted nervously at her side, eyes darting to the page. "Extravagant, Your Majesty. Quite the... gesture."

"Gesture?" She snorted. "It is a declaration. Bold. Improper, some would say."

She rose, pacing the room, skirts sweeping behind her. "The dukes and marquesses, they drown in tradition. They circle and preen and hope I will hand them a crown jewel. But this Captain—" She tapped the paper again, her eyes narrowing. "This Captain John Price—he moves with purpose. He does not wait. He does not ask permission."

Brimsley's brow furrowed. "Do you disapprove, Your Majesty?"

The Queen stopped, her expression caught between irritation and intrigue. "Disapprove? Ha. I am entertained."

She sank into her chair once more, fanning herself slowly. "Let the lords gnash their teeth, let the mothers faint with horror. If my diamond glitters with the shine of scandal, so much the better. The Season will be all the livelier for it."

Her eyes gleamed as she folded the paper again, a smile tugging at her mouth.

"Still," she murmured, "if this soldier is to keep her, he will need more than orchids. I will see if he is worthy. For diamonds, Brimsley, must never be dulled."

Chapter Text

The morning sun had barely cleared the rooftops when a footman arrived at the townhouse door, bearing a gilt-edged envelope upon a silver tray. He carried it to the breakfast room with all the solemnity of a messenger from the crown.

"An invitation, my lady," he said, bowing low.

Your mother's fan snapped open before the seal was even broken. She snatched it up, eyes gleaming, and turned it over for all to see. "From Lady Danbury," she declared, her voice nearly trembling with triumph. "A ball in her very own house. It shall be the event of the week!"

Your sisters gasped, practically bouncing in their chairs. "A Lady Danbury ball! Everyone will be there!"

"Everyone," your mother echoed, eyes sliding meaningfully to you. "The Queen herself may attend. And if she does, my diamond must dazzle brighter than ever."

Your brother groaned, stabbing at his toast. "Another ball. Another parade of peacocks. And another hundred men sniffing about my sister."

Your father chuckled behind his paper. "And another chance for her to choose wisely."

"Choose?" your brother snapped. "She is already besieged. If that soldier shows his face again—"

"He will," one of your sisters said sweetly, sipping her tea.

"Of course he will," the other chimed in. "He sent orchids. Orchids are forever."

You nearly choked on your tea.

Your mother waved her fan with finality. "We shall have the modiste prepare a gown fit for a queen. And as for suitors — dukes, marquesses, princes if they please — we shall not waste the opportunity. Do you understand, darling?"

You smiled politely, though your heart was already racing ahead, leaping over titles and gowns to a single possibility: a broad-shouldered captain stepping into Lady Danbury's ballroom, eyes finding yours across the crowd.

The carriage rolled up to the Bridgerton residence, and you were ushered into the drawing room where Eloise and Penelope awaited, embroidery discarded in favor of tea and mischief.

"Finally," Eloise exclaimed, springing from her chair. "I was beginning to despair of you. Do you know how dull this household becomes when I am left alone with brothers? Benedict insists on sketching me, Colin insists on talking of travel, and Anthony insists on glowering at everything that breathes."

Penelope only smiled serenely, pouring out tea as though Eloise's chatter were the most natural thing in the world.

You sank into a chair, trying not to smile too widely.

"Well," Eloise went on, eyes sparkling with mischief, "tell us everything. We've heard whispers of orchids — orchids, of all things — and of a certain soldier who dares parade about the ballroom as if he were born to it. Have the rumors exaggerated, or are we all to die of envy at once?"

"Orchids cannot be exaggerated," Penelope cut in gently. She set your cup before you with deliberate care. "They were the talk of Bond Street even before Whistledown set her ink to it. No duke has ever sent such a thing. And no soldier, either, until now."

Your cheeks warmed. "You've heard too much."

"We've heard just enough," Eloise said firmly, perching on the arm of her chair. "Did he call? Did he sit in your drawing room and charm your entire household? Or was it all smoke and flowers?"

You hesitated, then admitted softly, "He called. Properly. He sat, he spoke with my father, he..." You glanced down at your teacup. "...he was gracious."

Penelope's smile was bright as sunlight. "Gracious, and bold enough to be remembered. That is no small feat."

Eloise leaned forward, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "But do you like him? Never mind what the Queen decrees, or what your mother demands. Do you, in your own heart, want him to call again?"

The question struck like a stone skipping across still water. You had danced, spoken, smiled for so many men this Season — all with practiced composure. But none had left you flushed and restless, none had lingered in your mind with the heat of smoke and orchids.

"I..." You drew a breath, then let it out with the smallest, shyest smile. "I should not say. Not yet."

Eloise grinned wickedly. "Then it is already too late. You do like him."

Penelope laughed, her fan snapping open in delight. "This will be the Season to remember."

And though propriety insisted you keep your smile hidden, in that sunny drawing room, among friends who asked without judgment, you let it bloom.

The Price townhouse was unusually quiet that morning. Soap and Gaz had gone off to amuse themselves somewhere in town, Ghost had disappeared as only he could, and John had taken refuge in his study — until the familiar thump of the post landed on the hall table.

"John!"

His father's booming voice echoed through the house. Heavy footsteps followed, and then Mr. Price appeared in the doorway, waving a gilt-edged envelope as though it were a royal decree.

"It's come," he announced with triumph. "Lady Danbury's ball!"

John raised a brow, setting aside his pen. "For me?"

"For all of us," Mr. Price crowed, breaking the seal with far too much glee. He scanned the card, spectacles sliding down his nose. "Captain John Price and household are cordially invited to the ball at Lady Danbury's residence, this Friday evening. There it is, in ink. You've made it, son. Not just you — the whole damned house!"

John groaned softly. "So the lads are expected as well."

Mr. Price grinned like a cat with cream. "Indeed. Soap will scandalize, Gaz will charm, Ghost will terrify half the room. And me? I'll stand in the corner and soak up gossip for weeks." He tapped the invitation against his palm. "This, John, is no mere dance. This is Danbury's stage. The Queen will be watching. The diamond will be shining. And you —" He jabbed the card toward his son. "—had better be ready."

John leaned back in his chair, beard bristling, the weight of it settling in. One dance had set tongues wagging. One bouquet had set Whistledown's quill aflame. What would a second appearance mean, under Lady Danbury's roof, with the Queen's gaze upon him?

His father chuckled, clearly relishing the thought. "Oh, my boy. This is the kind of night that makes or breaks a Season. And I'll wager Whistledown has her ink bottle already tipped."

John pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "Bloody hell."

Mr. Price only laughed louder, waving the card once more. "Welcome to society, Captain."

The clink of porcelain filled the private parlor, the air heavy with the scent of bergamot and the sharper spice of amusement. Lady Danbury sat straight-backed, cane resting against her chair, eyes gleaming as she watched the Queen sip her tea.

"Well?" Lady Danbury prompted. "You've seen the guest list."

The Queen's lips curved into a sly smile. "I have. And I must say, Agatha, you have outdone yourself. A diamond's ball, the entire ton in attendance — and, soldiers."

Lady Danbury's eyes sparkled. "Not just any soldiers. The ones who set society aflutter. The captain who dared dance with your diamond. The one bold enough to send orchids."

The Queen let out a delighted laugh, sharp and rich. "Orchids! I nearly choked on my own fan when Whistledown reported it. A soldier with more daring than half the dukes in London. It is scandalous. It is outrageous." She leaned forward, eyes bright with relish. "I adore it."

Lady Danbury arched a brow. "You approve, then?"

"I am entertained," the Queen corrected, fanning herself lazily. "And if this Captain can keep me entertained, then perhaps society needs such a scandal. The ton has grown predictable. Dull. A little soldierly chaos will do them good."

Lady Danbury's chuckle was low and knowing. "Chaos always does. And perhaps it will reveal who is truly worthy of a diamond's hand — the lords with titles, or the man with nerve enough to seize her from them."

The Queen's smile sharpened, her eyes glittering like cut glass. "Let them all circle. Let them whisper. But mark me, Agatha — I shall be watching this captain. Closely. If he fails, I will enjoy it. And if he succeeds..." She paused, savoring the thought. "...then I will enjoy it even more."

Lady Danbury lifted her cup in a silent toast. "To scandal, then."

The Queen raised hers in answer, laughter bubbling at her lips. "And to orchids."

Chapter Text

Dearest Reader,

What is London without its scandals? What is the Season without its diamonds? And what is Lady Danbury without a party to set us all aflame?

Yes, the invitations have been sent, and Lady Danbury's ballroom will soon host the most glittering affair of the week. One can be certain her guest list contains every family of consequence — and, as ever, a few who are there simply to watch the rest fall on their faces.

But it is not only dukes and viscounts who will draw eyes this Friday. Whispers swirl that soldiers — yes, dear reader, soldiers — have found their way onto the list. No doubt at the Queen's amusement and Lady Danbury's delight. What's more, one particular captain is already the subject of half the ton's wagers.

Captain John Price — the man bold enough to claim the diamond's first waltz, and bolder still to send her a bouquet of orchids so rare and costly that London's florists are still gasping for air.

And the diamond herself? She remains the jewel in everyone's eye, courted by lords with titles older than their manners, yet curiously watchful when a soldier is near.

What will happen when orchids meet chandeliers, when duty meets diamonds, when titles clash with nerve beneath Lady Danbury's sharp gaze?

This author can only promise one thing: society will never be the same again.

Yours most devotedly,
Lady Whistledown

The bell above the sweet shop door jingled merrily as you and your sisters tumbled inside, ribbons fluttering. The air was thick with sugar — candied violets, sugared almonds, spun sugar twisted into ribbons of pink and gold.

Your mother lingered near the window, examining a tray of sugared oranges with her usual stern eye. "Only a small parcel," she cautioned. "A diamond must keep her figure."

Your sisters ignored her entirely, racing toward the jars of boiled sweets, their giggles rising louder than the bell itself. You followed more sedately, gown hem brushing the polished wood floor, though your eyes caught at the sight near the counter — and your breath faltered.

Captain Price.

He stood tall even in such a cozy shop, shoulders squared in a dark coat, his beard trimmed neat, his expression carefully schooled. Behind him loitered his companions — Soap already eyeing the trays like a child, Gaz smirking at something under his breath, and Ghost looming near the shelves with his arms folded, decidedly unimpressed.

But it was not they who startled you. It was the older gentleman at the counter, coin purse in hand and delight clear in his eyes as he examined a jar of sugared plums.

"Ah, these are the ones," he declared to the shop girl, voice booming. "My favorite since boyhood. We'll take two boxes, miss."

John muttered something under his breath, rubbing a hand over his beard, clearly embarrassed.

Your sisters gasped softly behind you. "It's him!"

You steadied yourself, then inclined your head with as much grace as you could muster. "Captain Price."

His eyes found yours instantly, and for a moment, the sweet shop melted away. His bow was crisp, his voice steady. "My Lady."

You allowed a smile, soft and shy. "I trust you are well."

"Very," he replied, though the word seemed to stick in his throat.

Your sisters were whispering frantically at one another, and your mother had frozen, fan half-raised, her expression a study in alarm.

Before the silence could turn awkward, the older gentleman stepped forward, beaming. "And who is this, then? Introduce me, son!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, but obeyed. "Miss, may I present my father."

Mr. Price bowed with surprising elegance for a man with sugared plums tucked under his arm. "Charmed, my dear. Utterly charmed. I have heard nothing but admiration for you from my son."

John nearly choked. "Father."

Your smile widened despite yourself, warmth blooming in your cheeks. "It is a pleasure, Mr. Price. I see you share my sisters' sweet tooth."

"Indeed," he chuckled, patting the jar fondly. "Life is too short for bitter tastes. Far better to indulge in sugar — and, occasionally, in scandal." He winked.

Your sisters giggled helplessly, your mother looked ready to faint, and John's ears went red to the tips.

You seized the moment, lifting your chin just slightly, letting your voice soften with intent. "I understand Lady Danbury's ball will be quite the spectacle tomorrow evening. It would be... delightful if you were to attend." Your eyes held his, steady and warm. "And if you were to... leave your name upon my dance card."

The air between you seemed to spark, invisible yet undeniable.

John bowed, voice low, almost rough. "I would be honored."

Your mother snapped her fan open with a crack, scurrying your sisters toward the counter as though she could fan the heat from the air.

And though propriety remained intact, the yearning lingered long after — like sugar melting on the tongue.

The bell above the door jingled again as you stepped back into the street, parcel of sugared almonds in hand. But before you climbed into the carriage, you risked one last look over your shoulder.

John stood inside, coins exchanged, his father still chuckling over the plums. For a heartbeat, his eyes caught yours through the windowpane — steady, unreadable to anyone else, but you felt the weight of it like a touch.

You held his gaze, let your smile curve just enough to betray your meaning. Then you ducked into the carriage, skirts swishing, heart racing.

Inside, the moment shattered instantly.

Your mother sat rigid, her fan snapping with every breath. "Improper," she hissed. "Utterly, unforgivably improper! Hinting at your dance card, as though you were begging a man to sign it. And a soldier, no less! Lady Danbury's ball is not a militia muster."

You drew in a slow, steadying breath. "Mama, I merely expressed that I hoped to see him again. It was no more than courtesy."

"Courtesy?" she exclaimed, scandalized. "It was invitation! Invitation leads to presumption, and presumption leads to ruin. You are the diamond, my dear. You do not pursue. You are pursued."

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, lifting your chin with practiced grace. "Then perhaps, Mama, I only wished to make clear who I would welcome among those who pursue."

Your sisters erupted in squeals and laughter, clutching each other as though you'd whispered the most salacious confession.

"OH! She said it! She wants the captain!"

"She asked him for a dance! At Danbury's!"

Your mother gasped, fanning herself so furiously the ribbons on her shoulders trembled. "Quiet, both of you!"

But the girls only giggled harder, one peeking out the carriage window with a mischievous grin. "Perhaps he's following us home with more orchids!"

You bit back your own smile, keeping your expression demure even as your heart still raced with the memory of his eyes on you.

Outside, the city rolled by in a blur of cobbles and carriages. Inside, the sugar lingered on your tongue, sweeter still for the promise of a soldier's hand waiting to claim another dance.

John lingered a moment longer in the sweet shop after you'd gone, staring at the door as though he could still catch the sway of your skirts. The echo of your words — I do hope you'll sign your name on my dance card — played over and over in his head, far sweeter than any sugared plum.

"Ha!" Mr. Price clapped him on the back so hard the jar in his hand rattled. "Did you hear her? Bold as brass, my boy. She wants your name. Your name! On her card at Danbury's ball!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, ears burning. "Father..."

"No, don't you 'Father' me," the old man chuckled, grinning ear to ear. "I knew she liked you. The way she smiled. The way she blushed. The way her sisters giggled like they'd swallowed honey bees. She's halfway gone already."

Before John could protest, the door jingled again — and in strode Soap and Gaz, laden with paper cones of sugared almonds.

Soap's grin split his face at once. "Captain! You've done it. The diamond herself, begging you for a dance? Oh, I'll never let you live it down."

Gaz smirked, shaking his head. "Not begging. Inviting. And he accepted. Properly, too. Our Captain's turning into quite the society man."

John growled low. "Enough."

Soap ignored him entirely, throwing his arm around Gaz's shoulder. "Danbury's ball will be glorious. The chandeliers, the gowns, the whispers — and our Captain, sweeping London's diamond across the floor while every duke and marquess gnashes his teeth."

Mr. Price chuckled, still holding his sugared plums like a prize. "And I'll be there to see it all. Front row. The Queen herself couldn't write it better."

John dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. But deep in his chest, beneath the embarrassment and the noise, something glowed steady and undeniable — the memory of your eyes meeting his in that sunlit shop, and the promise of your hand in his again beneath Lady Danbury's chandeliers.

The dining room glowed with candlelight, silverware gleaming, dishes steaming with roast fowl and buttered carrots. You had barely settled into your chair when your mother, never one to wait, launched her assault.

"Well," she began grandly, dabbing delicately at her lips with a napkin, "we must discuss this afternoon's... encounter."

Your sisters smirked knowingly, barely containing their giggles.

Your brother groaned. "Here we go."

Your mother ignored him, directing her gaze toward your father, who was pouring himself a glass of claret. "We met Captain Price at the confectioner's. And do you know what your daughter said?"

Your father arched a brow, amused. "Do tell."

"She hinted—oh, no, more than hinted— qshe wished for him to write his name upon her dance card at Lady Danbury's ball." She pressed her hand to her chest as though the impropriety might smite her then and there. "In public! Within earshot of half of Bond Street!"

Your sisters burst into laughter. "She did! She said it so sweetly, too!"

"She smiled at him," the other added, "and he nearly melted into the jars of toffee."

Your father chuckled, clearly delighted. "Well, that sounds endearing. A little boldness suits a diamond, I should think. Better than simpering after some dull lord."

Your brother slammed his fork down. "Endearing? It was desperate! Practically begging a soldier for a dance, as though she couldn't have her pick of dukes and princes. What must people think?"

The warmth in your cheeks flared hotter than the candles. You straightened, fixing him with a sharp look. "Perhaps they think I value sincerity over titles. And that I prefer a man who listens, rather than one who prattles endlessly about his hounds."

Your sisters gasped, then collapsed into helpless giggles.

Your father smirked into his claret, raising his glass in salute. "Well said, my girl."

Your brother glared, muttering, "It will end in ruin."

Your mother fluttered her fan furiously. "It will end in scandal, if you all do not hold your tongues. The Danbury ball is tomorrow — and every eye will be upon her. Orchids are one thing. Improper invitations are quite another."

But even as the scolding carried on, you allowed yourself a small, secret smile. For in the quiet part of your heart, you did not feel desperate. You felt desired.

The house had long since gone quiet, the clatter of supper replaced by the soft creak of timbers settling for the night. You lay beneath your coverlet, the candle at your bedside burning low, the faint perfume of orchids still wafting from the vase your maid had smuggled back into your chamber.

You should have been asleep. You tried to be — eyes closed, breaths steady — but your thoughts refused to rest.

They circled back again and again to him.

To the press of his palm at your waist as he led you across the ballroom floor, firm yet careful. To the weight of his gaze, steady as though you were the only soul in a crowd. To the brush of his gloved fingers over yours when he bowed in farewell that morning.

And then — scandalously, dangerously — your imagination wandered further.

What would it be like to feel that same hand without the barrier of kid leather? To let it trace the line of your arm, your shoulder, your throat... lower still, where no gentleman's hand should ever stray without a vow. What would it be like to feel the roughness of his beard against your cheek, your neck, perhaps your lips?

Heat flushed through you, startling in its force. You turned onto your side, drawing the covers closer, as though that might muffle the quickening of your breath.

It was improper. You knew it. Your mother would faint, your brother would rage, the Queen herself might strike you from the Season.

And yet — the thought lingered, sweeter than sugared violets, more intoxicating than wine. The thought of his steadiness turning to passion, of his soldier's restraint giving way to something meant only for you.

Your eyelids grew heavy at last, the imagined warmth of his hands still ghosting over your skin. Slowly, you drifted into sleep, your dreams gilded with orchids and smoke — and the promise of a dance yet to come.

Sleep pulled at you slowly, your thoughts slipping from the day into the haze of dream. The orchids blurred in the candlelight, their perfume thick in the air, and in that half-place between waking and slumber you felt him.

John.

His presence pressed in warm and steady behind you, the heat of his body seeping through your nightdress. You could almost feel the weight of his hand splay over your hip, firm and claiming, his breath stirring the curls at your temple.

"Beautiful," he murmured, voice low and rough, the way it had been when he bowed to you that morning. Only now it was closer. More dangerous.

A shiver danced across your skin as his lips brushed the curve of your ear. Not quite a kiss — just the barest graze, enough to make your chest tighten and your pulse stumble.

"Do you know how I think of you?" he whispered, words thick with desire. His fingers ghosted up the line of your arm, slow and reverent, pausing at your throat. There, his touch lingered, thumb resting against the rapid beat of your pulse. "Every moment. Every breath. Wanting to taste you here."

Your head tipped back in the dream, giving him room, breath catching as the imagined press of his mouth trailed lower — the scrape of his beard against your neck, the warmth of lips that promised more.

Your body arched into the phantom touch, the yearning so sharp it almost hurt. His words, his hands, the way he moved against you — steady, commanding, yet careful — it was everything you had never been allowed to imagine.

"Mine," he growled softly, voice vibrating against your skin. "If only you'd let me."

The heat curled low in your belly, spreading through you like fire under silk. The dream blurred further, lips and hands and whispered promises, until it was nothing but warmth and want and the echo of orchids blooming in the dark.

And as sleep claimed you fully, you clung to it — to him — as though waking might shatter the spell.

The house had long since quieted. His father was dozing in the chair by the fire, the pipe cold in his hand; the boys had scattered to their rooms or, in Soap's case, to God knew where. But John lay awake in his chamber, staring at the ceiling beams as though they held answers.

He'd been with women before. Too many nights in too many ports had seen to that. Women who laughed loudly, women who wanted coin, women who needed nothing but a distraction from the world. A man of war did not often find softness — he took what was offered, gave what was expected, and left with no ties to follow him.

But you were different.

You were polished, proper, untouchable in the eyes of society — a diamond raised for dukes and princes. To most, you were innocence wrapped in silk, unknowing of pleasures beyond candlelight and music.

And yet, when you looked at him...

God help him, he saw curiosity flicker beneath that composure. Yearning, even, if he dared name it so. The way you had spoken to him — careful but bold, inviting his name to your card — it lingered in his chest, far heavier than it ought.

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He should not think this way. Not of you. But his mind wandered traitorously, painting pictures he had no right to: his hands on your waist, on your throat, coaxing sounds from you that no ballroom would ever hear. His mouth at your ear, whispering what he truly wanted. His body teaching you what the world would never dare explain.

He knew he could do it — draw every blush from you, every sigh, every arch of your back until you no longer carried yourself as a diamond polished for show, but as a woman cherished, undone, and utterly alive.

The thought made his chest ache, equal parts hunger and guilt. You were not like the others. You were not meant to be dragged into shadow. You deserved light, and gentleness, and a man who would lay the world at your feet.

Still, in the darkness of his chamber, John Price admitted the truth to himself in a low, rough whisper:

He wanted to be that man.

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.

Chapter Text

The final notes of the waltz swelled, Lord Ashworth spinning you once more with precision, his hand too firm at your waist, his smile too sharp to be sincere. Applause began to ripple faintly at the edges of the room as couples slowed to their graceful finish.

But before the last violin string had even faded, another figure was already moving.

Captain John Price.

He broke from the crowd with a Captain's stride, not hurried, not hesitant, but direct. The sort of stride that had carried him through smoke and gunfire — and now across a glittering ballroom, cutting through silks and whispers.

Lord Ashworth bowed as the music ended, turning to escort you from the floor—only to find John standing there, broad and steady, his eyes fixed on you.

"My Lady," John said, voice low but firm, bow crisp. "The next dance?"

It wasn't a question. It was a claim.

The hum of the room rose at once, fans fluttering, whispers spiking. A soldier butting in before titled lords could blink? Outrageous. Delicious. Scandalous.

Ashworth's smile faltered. "The lady's card is already—"

You cut him off, your voice soft but unshaken. "I would be glad of it, Captain."

John extended his hand. You placed yours in it without hesitation. The warmth of his palm, even through gloves, sent heat racing up your arm.

He led you away, not looking back, not pausing for approval from brother, mother, or duke. The crowd parted, murmuring, every eye watching as a Captain claimed London's diamond under the chandeliers.

And for the first time that night, your heart soared.

From their elevated seats, the Queen and Lady Danbury missed nothing. The ripple of whispers, the sudden stride, the soldier's hand extended not after, but before the applause had finished.

The Queen's fan snapped open with a crack. "Well, Agatha. Did you see that?"

Lady Danbury chuckled, cane tapping against the marble. "I did indeed. Bold as brass. He did not wait, did not defer, did not blink. He claimed her before the ink on Ashworth's smile was even dry."

The Queen's lips curved wickedly. "And she let him."

"She did more than let him," Lady Danbury corrected, eyes gleaming. "She chose him. Clear as the diamonds at her throat."

The Queen leaned forward, gaze sharp as cut glass. "Oh, this will set the mothers aflame. The dukes in despair. And Whistledown—hah! She will need a second column just for this."

Lady Danbury sipped her wine, thoroughly pleased. "Let the lords grumble. Let the brother rage. A woman worth her crown of diamonds deserves a man bold enough to step into fire for her. And that one—" She nodded toward John, already guiding you to the floor. "—has the look of a man who has done so, and would again."

The Queen laughed, rich and delighted. "At last, something worth my time." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Let the Season burn. I shall enjoy watching it smolder."

The orchestra struck again, a waltz slower this time, deep and resonant. John's hand found your waist — steady, heavier than Lord Russ's polite hold, more commanding than Ashworth's practiced grip. He drew you into step with a surety that stole your breath before the first turn.

Your fingers rested in his palm, warm through the glove. The pressure of his hand against your back was not improper by rule — but you felt it all the same. Felt the strength behind it, the quiet promise in the way he guided you across the polished floor.

Whispers buzzed like bees along the edges of the ballroom. The Captain... the diamond... scandalous...

John bent his head slightly, his breath brushing your temple. "You look exquisite."

Heat flared in your cheeks. "Captain..."

"It isn't flattery," he murmured, his voice roughened from years of command, pitched so low only you could hear. "It's truth."

You dared a glance upward. His eyes caught yours, steady, unyielding, filled with something far heavier than ballroom charm. Your pulse tripped.

"You've caused quite the stir," you managed softly, forcing your lips into a polite smile for the watching crowd.

He smirked, the barest curl of his mouth beneath his beard. "Let them talk. I've weathered worse."

"War," you whispered back. "And yet you choose a ballroom full of gossip."

"War is simple," he said, eyes never leaving yours. "This is the harder fight."

The words sent a shiver through you, wicked and thrilling. Your body moved instinctively with his, each step fluid, effortless — though you could not ignore the way your chest tightened at every press of his palm, every brush of his thigh as he drew you close in the turn.

Improper thoughts stirred again, unbidden: his hand without the glove, tracing the skin he now only guided. His lips, so near your ear, dropping words not for society, but for you alone. You fanned yourself in your mind, even as your body obeyed his lead perfectly.

The music swelled, and he whispered, "Do you regret it? Letting me take this dance?"

You swallowed hard, heat blooming all the way down your spine. "No."

His jaw ticked, his grip tightening by the smallest fraction — a soldier's hand, steady but full of restraint. His eyes burned, but he said no more.

The dance ended, but your heart did not slow.

And as he bowed, releasing you only when propriety demanded, you realized you had not taken a full breath since the first note.

Applause rippled as the music ended, couples curtsying and bowing before parting. John's hand lingered on yours a heartbeat longer than was proper, his bow deep, his eyes promising what he could not say aloud.

You felt the heat of him still, your skin humming as he guided you to the edge of the floor. But before he could offer another word — before you could even draw a steady breath — your mother descended like a hawk.

"There you are," she exclaimed, snapping her fan open so sharply it startled a maid nearby. "What a spectacle. Thank you, Captain, for your attentions. I am certain my daughter appreciates the... experience."

The word landed like a slap, dressed in sugar. She curtsied just enough to acknowledge him, then slipped deftly between you, reclaiming your arm as though you were a parcel in danger of being stolen.

John inclined his head, every inch the gentleman, though his jaw flexed. "My lady," he murmured.

Your mother wasted no time steering you toward the nearest cluster of titled lords, her fan fluttering furiously. "Smile," she hissed under her breath. "Smile and curtsy and remember who you are. A diamond does not belong in a soldier's hand."

You obeyed, at least in posture, curtsying to Lord Ashworth once more, to another marquess who lingered hopeful nearby. But your eyes betrayed you, flicking back over your shoulder.

John still stood where you'd left him, dark and broad against the glittering crowd. His father at his elbow, Soap and Gaz grinning like fools, Ghost a silent shadow beside them. And his eyes — steady, burning, utterly yours — cut through every whisper in the room.

Your mother's fan snapped again, pulling your gaze forward. "Forget him, darling. Tonight, we must salvage what remains of your reputation."

But deep in your chest, the truth coiled hot and undeniable: there was nothing to salvage. The damage was done.

And you didn't want it undone.

John had faced generals, kings, and officers whose tempers could curdle blood. He had marched through fire, seen men fall and rise again. But nothing had prepared him for the sight of Queen Charlotte herself turning her head, fixing him with eyes sharp enough to slice steel, and beckoning him forward with the snap of her fan.

The crowd parted like water before a ship. Soap muttered behind him, "Oh, here we go, Captain. The lion's den."

Gaz smirked, low and amused. "Try not to get your head bitten off."

Even Ghost's quiet presence seemed to stiffen in warning.

But Mr. Price grinned ear to ear, clapping his cane against the floor. "Go on, son. Mind your bow."

John straightened, spine rigid as a parade ground. His boots clicked against marble as he stepped into the Queen's circle, the hush of the room pressing against him. He bowed low, crisp, steady. "Your Majesty."

The Queen studied him as though he were a jewel she might buy, or discard, depending on her mood. At her side, Lady Danbury leaned on her cane, eyes glittering with relish.

"So," the Queen said at last, her voice curling through the silence, "this is the soldier."

John lifted his head, but only slightly. "Yes, Your Majesty. Captain John Price. At your service."

Her fan tapped once against her palm. "The army has long been at my service, Captain. The King valued men such as you. Men who bled for their country while lords preened in their mirrors." She tilted her head. "I imagine you have seen things most of these gentlemen would faint to hear."

"I have, Your Majesty," John said evenly.

"And yet here you stand in a ballroom," she mused. "A soldier in satin. With a diamond on your arm, no less." Her eyes narrowed, sharp and knowing. "Tell me, Captain — are you bold, or merely reckless?"

The words cut through the hush like steel. All of London seemed to lean forward.

John did not flinch. His voice was low, steady, unshaken. "Bold, Your Majesty. But never reckless. Not with diamonds."

A collective gasp swept the room. Soap stifled a laugh with his fist. Mr. Price nearly whooped before Gaz elbowed him into silence.

The Queen's lips curved, slow and wicked. "Ha. Bold indeed. Perhaps you will keep me entertained this Season." She flicked her fan open, dismissing him with a regal wave. "See that you do not bore me, Captain. Or her."

Lady Danbury's chuckle followed as John bowed once more. "Well struck, Captain," she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

As John stepped back, the whispers exploded like fireworks, half scandal, half awe. And though his pulse thundered, he allowed himself one glance across the ballroom — to where you stood, sapphire gown gleaming, your eyes locked on him with something that made the whole damn war worth it.

The night carried on in a whirl of silks and strings, the air heavy with perfume and murmurs. Suitors came and went, each eager to scribble his name upon your card — viscounts, marquesses, even a foreign baron whose accent drew giggles from your sisters watching from the edge.

You danced until your slippers ached, curtsied until your skirts felt fused to your knees, and smiled until your cheeks warmed. Each conversation blurred into the next — titles, estates, bloodlines, flatteries rehearsed so many times they lost their shine before they left their lips.

You stood at last near a table laden with delicacies — candied fruits, spiced wine, game pies fragrant with herbs — when a ripple moved through the crowd. The orchestra faltered. Fans stilled.

The Queen beckoned.

Lady Danbury's cane tapped sharply as she cleared the way, her eyes glinting with delight at the chaos she stirred. You curtsied low as Her Majesty approached, her gown sweeping the marble like a tide of jewels.

"Rise, my diamond," the Queen commanded, her fan snapping shut.

You obeyed, heart thundering.

Her gaze swept you up and down, assessing, weighing, measuring. Then, in a voice that carried to those who dared lean close, she asked, "Tell me, child — how do you fare beneath this title I have set upon you? Do you still shine, or has London dulled you already?"

Your throat tightened, but you answered carefully. "It is an honor, Your Majesty. Though the Season is... a storm at times."

A low hum of approval vibrated in her chest. "A storm, yes. And tell me, who among these lords has managed not to drown in it? Which of them has earned your interest?"

The crowd leaned closer, breath held, fans trembling. You felt your mother stiffen at your side, your brother's glare from somewhere behind you.

Improper flashes tugged at your mind — the weight of a soldier's hand at your waist, the sound of his voice pitched low for you alone, the orchids that still perfumed your chamber. Heat climbed up your neck, but you forced your lips into a calm curve.

"I am... still considering the many options, Your Majesty," you said smoothly. "There are many fine gentlemen. Some with title, others with steadiness. I should like to be certain before declaring my heart like a fool."

The Queen's eyes gleamed, sharp as cut glass. "Wise. Very wise. A diamond must not be set in the wrong crown." She flicked her fan open, amusement curling her lips. "And yet, I cannot help but notice your shine grows brighter when a certain soldier is near."

Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Your cheeks burned.

Lady Danbury's chuckle rang clear as a bell. "Her Majesty sees everything."

The Queen smiled, dangerous and delighted. "Yes. And I will be watching."

She swept away, attendants fluttering after her, leaving you breathless under the weight of every eye in the room.

Your mother looked as though she might faint right there upon the marble, her fan fluttering so furiously you feared it might take flight.

"Did she—did Her Majesty say—" your mother stammered, eyes wide. "A soldier? In front of the entire ton? My reputation—your reputation—ruined!"

"Not ruined," came a warm, measured voice. Violet Bridgerton swept forward with her characteristic calm, her expression sympathetic yet firm. She laid a gentle hand upon your mother's arm. "The Queen did not scold, your daughter. She smiled. And you know as well as I do — Her Majesty only smiles when she is entertained. This is not disgrace, it is favor."

Your mother sputtered, "Favor? Favor for a man who sends orchids instead of bearing a title?"

Violet's smile was serene, a balm against your mother's agitation. "Favor for a story that will set the ton alight. Better scandal and sparkle than dullness, is it not? Trust me, I have weathered worse storms with my children. And diamonds do not shatter so easily."

Your mother hesitated, fanning slower now, though her eyes still darted. Violet's calm had worked its charm — her presence smoothing what could have grown into hysteria.

Meanwhile, you were swept from the crowd by Eloise's firm grip and Penelope's quiet determination. They tugged you into a quieter alcove, Daphne trailing with a smile that gleamed as brightly as her diamonds.

"Tell us everything," Eloise demanded at once, fan snapping shut with a flourish. "The Queen! The claim! The way you looked at him as though you were already halfway ruined—oh, it was glorious."

"Eloise," Penelope scolded, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Do not torment her. It was romantic. Terribly improper, of course, but... well, one cannot deny the Captain cuts a fine figure."

Daphne laughed softly, linking her arm with yours. "Improper or not, you shone. Do not let the whispers unsettle you. The Queen's notice is no curse — it is a gift. And if this Captain has caught her eye as well as yours, then I daresay he will not vanish from the Season so easily."

Eloise smirked. "Vanishing is hardly his problem. He looked as though he might march through your brother to reach you."

You flushed scarlet, hiding behind your fan. "I... did not think it was so obvious."

Penelope and Eloise exchanged a look, then spoke in perfect unison: "It was."

Your laugh escaped despite yourself, tension easing from your shoulders. Surrounded by friends who teased but also steadied you, the weight of society's gaze felt lighter, bearable.

The music swelled again, chatter returning in waves after the Queen's sharp dismissal, but John hardly heard it. His pulse still thundered as though he'd run a mile under fire.

He'd just spoken to the Queen of England. And lived.

His father's grin was wide enough to split his face, Soap was muttering gleefully about how he wished he'd had a sketch artist at hand, Gaz was smirking like a man who'd won a bet, and Ghost's silence was heavier than usual.

But John needed air.

He slipped away through one of Lady Danbury's side doors, past gilded curtains and marble columns, and out onto the lantern-lit terrace. The night was cool against his overheated skin, smoke curling from the cheroot he lit with practiced ease. He drew deep, steadying himself, exhaling into the darkness where the stars blinked faintly above.

It wasn't battle, not really. But in some ways, it was worse. Whispers and fans, the Queen's eyes sharp as blades, your brother's interference, Ashworth's hand at your waist—he'd rather take fire on the field.

Inside, laughter and violins bled faintly through the walls. He closed his eyes, dragging smoke into his lungs, letting it ground him.

And then—soft footsteps. The sweep of silk.

He opened his eyes and saw you.

You had slipped from the ballroom as though by instinct, your sapphire skirts catching the lanternlight, your diamonds winking like distant stars. For a moment you hesitated at the threshold, gaze flicking from the crowd you'd left behind to the solitary figure on the terrace.

Then your eyes found his.

The cheroot hung forgotten between his fingers. His chest tightened, not from smoke, but from the sight of you — framed in lamplight, half-proper, half-daring, as though you, too, sought refuge from the storm inside.

For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Just the two of you. A soldier and a diamond, bound by a gaze that burned hotter than scandal ever could.

The night air was cooler than the ballroom, though it did little to settle the fire in your cheeks. You stepped out beneath the lanterns, silk skirts brushing stone, heart hammering against the cage of your stays. John turned toward you at once, the cheroot smoldering low in his hand, his face shadowed by lamplight and beard.

"My Lady," he murmured, bowing just enough, though his voice carried the roughness of a man not used to bowing.

"Captain," you whispered back, dipping your head. The word felt too intimate, too heavy on your tongue.

For a moment, silence stretched. The music inside was muted, only the faint echo of violins drifting through the walls. Here, there was nothing but the soft hiss of the cheroot, the cool air, and the dangerous nearness of him.

"I beg your pardon," he said at last, his voice low. "For what I said to Her Majesty. Boldness is a vice in these rooms."

Your lips curved faintly, though you hardly knew why. "And yet it seems to have pleased her."

His gaze sharpened, steady as gunmetal. "And you?"

Heat rose in your throat. You turned slightly, your fan trembling as you lifted it, though it did little to disguise the flush creeping up your skin. "I should scold you for it. It was Improper. Completely and entirely reckless."

His jaw tightened, his hand flexing at his side. "I told her I was not reckless. Not with you."

The words pulled your breath short, leaving you reeling, the fan useless in your fingers. "Captain..." you managed softly, your voice barely above the night air.

He stepped closer, close enough that you caught the faint scent of smoke and spice on him, close enough that propriety screamed in protest. His voice dropped, a husky whisper. "You have no idea how hard I fight, standing here. To keep words in my throat. To keep my hands where they belong."

Your pulse stumbled, your fan snapping shut with a sharp click. "Share your words freely, Captain" you whispered, though your own voice betrayed you — softer, aching, betraying curiosity you had never dared to name.

The tension strung taut between you, invisible but unbreakable. His hand hovered near yours, not touching, but so close that the air seemed to crackle.

"Not here," he muttered at last, dragging his gaze away, his restraint a battle plain on his face. "Not while the world is watching."

You exhaled, slow, trembling, your body alive with thoughts you had never entertained before. Your fan slipped slightly in your grasp.

Inside, laughter spilled as the doors opened — another stager of lord step out onto the terrace, their chatter loud, oblivious.

John straightened, bowing once more, his voice rough but steady. "Until the next, my lady."

And though propriety had been preserved, every inch of you hummed with the memory of what nearly broke it.

Chapter Text

The night clung to you long after Lady Danbury's ball had ended. Back in your chamber, diamonds tucked away, gown unlaced, your body lay restless beneath the coverlet. You shut your eyes, but sleep did not come gently.

Instead, it replayed.

His voice. Rough, low, threaded through your bones. "You have no idea how hard I fight, standing here. To keep words in my throat. To keep my hands where they belong."

In the dream, he did not hold back.

John stepped closer, no hesitation, his hand sliding firm along your waist, pulling you back against the cold limestone of the terrace railing. His mouth caught yours — hot, unyielding, the kiss of a man who had been starving.

The world tilted. The ballroom fell away. All that remained was the soldier's weight pinning you between him and the stone, his body caging yours as though he dared the stars to judge him.

His hands moved — one cradling your jaw, the other skimming down the curve of your skirts. Fabric bunched beneath his palm as he traced your hip, your thigh, just enough to ignite a fire where no gentleman should dare.

You gasped into his mouth, clinging to his coat as the kiss deepened, his beard scratching your skin, his breath ragged against your cheek. He whispered your name between kisses, rough and reverent, like a prayer he had no right to speak.

Improper. Scandalous. Yet your body arched into his, desperate for more, for the hand that pressed lower, slower, promising pleasures only whispered of behind closed fans.

"You will be mine," he growled, lips dragging down your throat, his grip tightening on your waist. "Say you'd let take you."

Your lips parted, words trembling—

And then—

"Miss."

Your maid's voice. The soft knock of a door.

Your eyes flew open. Sunlight streamed across your chamber, orchids bright on the table beside your bed. Your breath came quick, your cheeks burned, your body still tingling from the dream's ghost.

It had not happened.
Not yet.

But the memory of it lingered, sweeter and sharper than any waltz.

"My Lady."

The knock came again, firmer this time, and the maid's voice followed, polite but insistent. "It is time to begin the day, miss."

You jolted upright, your pulse still wild, the dream clinging like smoke. The sheets twisted about your legs, heat burning through your skin, your lips tingling as though they had truly been kissed.

It was only a dream.
It must have been a dream.

And yet the memory of his words—You have no idea how hard I fight, standing here. To keep words in my throat. To keep my hands where they belong—echoed through you, shameful and sweet.

"Come in," you called, your voice thinner than you intended.

Anne bustled in with a tray of hot tea and biscuits, her sharp eyes immediately noting your flushed cheeks. She said nothing, but the faint quirk of her brow made your blush deepen. You turned away, fumbling for your robe, as though a layer of silk could cool the fire beneath your skin.

The morning routine unfolded like any other — the steaming bath, the brush through your hair, the gowns laid out across the bed. And yet everything felt different. Every brushstroke too intimate, every clasp at your stays too tight, every glance in the mirror a betrayal of the heat still humming in your veins.

"Blue or ivory, my lady?" the maid asked, holding up two gowns.

"Ivory," you answered quickly, then faltered. Blue had been your choice so often, yet sapphire silk no longer felt safe. Not when your mind painted his hands against it. "No—blue. Yes. Blue will do."

Anne curtsied, her face carefully blank, though you swore you saw amusement flicker in her eyes.

By the time you stepped into the corridor, your sisters were already darting about, ribbons half-tied, bonnets askew, whispering and laughing as though the ball had followed them home.

"There you are!" one squealed, catching your arm. "We have been waiting all morning! Tell us—did the captain whisper anything scandalous when he danced with you?"

"Or when he spoke with the Queen!" the other added. "Everyone heard her say it! Everyone!"

Your blush betrayed you, though you quickly snapped open your fan to hide behind it. "Enough. You'll have me fainting before breakfast."

Your sisters giggled, unconvinced.

Your mother was waiting in the breakfast room, lips pressed thin, her fan tapping the table with impatience. "At last," she said, eyeing your face sharply. "You look flushed, my dear. Have you taken ill?"

"No, Mama," you said quickly, lowering your gaze. "I am well. Quite well."

Your father, hidden behind his paper, gave a quiet chuckle. "She looks well enough to me."

But as you settled at the table, the taste of tea sweet on your tongue, you knew the truth: you were anything but composed.

And if John Price's eyes found you again today, you doubted you'd be able to hide it.

The family had only just begun to eat when the sound of hooves and wheels outside announced the morning deliveries. A footman swept in moments later, bearing the familiar folded sheet upon a silver tray.

"Lady Whistledown," he intoned, setting it neatly beside your mother.

Your sisters nearly knocked over their tea in their rush to lean across the table. "Read it! Quickly, Mama!"

Your mother's lips pressed tight, though her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she broke the seal. She scanned the first lines, her fan snapping open with a crack as she read aloud:

Dearest reader,
It is not often one witnesses a diamond in danger of being stolen from her setting. And yet, last evening at Lady Danbury's ball, London saw just that.

Your cheeks flushed instantly, the roll on your plate forgotten.

The Queen herself could not resist speaking of our diamond, smiling wickedly as she let slip a soldier's name without hesitation. A soldier! Captain John Price — the man bold enough to send orchids, bold enough to claim a waltz, and, most deliciously, bold enough to face Her Majesty's scrutiny without flinching.

Gasps broke around the table. One sister squealed, the other clapped a hand over her mouth in delighted horror.

Your brother scowled, muttering, "Preposterous. Whistledown ought to hold her tongue."

But your mother continued, her voice tight.

Lord Ashworth attempted to stake his claim, as did others, but it was the captain who stole the night's final whispers. And this author assures you, dear reader, that the Queen herself is watching. Closely.

The paper trembled in your mother's hand. "Scandal! Ruin! We shall never recover from this."

Your father, behind his paper, coughed to hide a laugh. "Recover? We shall not need to. Sounds to me as though the Queen herself has chosen to fan the flame."

"Mama," one sister chirped, eyes dancing, "does this mean our sister will marry a Captain instead of a duke?"

The other giggled. "Oh, I do hope so. Soldiers are ever so much more romantic. They've braved so much."

"Romantic?" your brother snapped. "Foolish! Immature! The both of you! Orchids and dances are nothing against land and title."

You lowered your eyes to your plate, cheeks burning, heart thundering. The words of Captain John Price inked across the page felt like a brand, marking you in the sight of all London.

And yet, beneath the heat of embarrassment, a treacherous thrill bloomed. For the first time, Whistledown's ink had not felt like condemnation. It had felt like promise.

It was your father who declared it over breakfast. "Enough of these long faces," he said, folding Whistledown with a satisfied smirk. "The girl's in half the paper already. London expects to see her, not locked away like a nun. We're going to the theatre tonight. And it will be fun."

Your mother nearly choked on her tea. "Fun? After such scandal—"

"All the better," he interrupted, eyes twinkling. "If they're whispering about us, let them whisper where we can hear it."

By evening, the family carriage rattled down the lamplit streets, wheels glinting, horses stamping impatiently. Inside, the air was a storm of perfume and chatter.

Your sisters were giddy, fussing with their gloves and ribbons. "What if we see a duke?" one asked breathlessly.
"Or a prince?" the other chimed.
"Or the captain," the first whispered with wicked glee, earning a sharp smack of your mother's fan.

You pressed your hands to your lap, forcing composure, though your heart thrummed with restless energy. Every jolt of the carriage seemed to echo with last night's dream, with the memory of John's words against your ear.

Your father, across from you, chuckled at your blush. "Nervous, my girl? It's only a play."

Yes.
Only a play.
And yet, it felt as though you were riding towards a battlefield.

The theatre was ablaze with light, its grand columns swathed in lanterns, its steps crowded with London's finest. Carriages lined the street in neat procession, lords and ladies spilling out in glittering silks and satins.

Your family stepped down, your mother holding her head high, your father steady at her side, your sisters craning in every direction with excitement.

The lobby was alive with voices, a crush of velvet and jewels. Footmen darted with programs, laughter rang from every corner, and the smell of oranges and perfume mingled in the warm air.

And there—just ahead, framed by the glow of chandeliers—stood Lord Russ.

His coat was cut in the latest style, his smile easy and warm. He caught sight of you instantly, bowing with practiced charm.

"My Lady," he greeted smoothly. "What fortune, that we should cross paths again so soon." His eyes flicked briefly to your mother, then to your father, measuring. "Might I escort you to your box?"

Your sisters nearly squealed in unison. Your mother beamed, already nodding her approval. Your father muttered something under his breath, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement.

The theatre's lobby was a crush of perfume and chatter, velvet coats brushing against silk gowns as the city's finest jostled for programs and gossip. The chandeliers overhead gleamed, spilling golden light over every powdered head and jeweled neckline.

Into this whirl stepped Captain John Price.

Gaz flanked him, neat as ever, offering quiet commentary under his breath, while Mr. Price strode just ahead, cane tapping briskly against the marble. The old man's eyes glittered with excitement, his grin broad as though he had orchestrated the entire evening himself.

"Look lively, John," Mr. Price muttered, leaning close. "This is where society truly bares its teeth. Ballrooms are one thing, but the theatre? You can hear the whispers before they've even finished their lines on stage."

John grunted, tugging absently at his cravat. "I'd rather face the lines in a trench."

But then he stilled.

Across the swell of the lobby, you appeared.

Your gown was light blue tonight, the shade of a morning sky, with pearls gleaming at your throat and wrists. The candlelight caught the sheen of silk as you moved, each step elegant, effortless. You looked radiant, so radiant John felt the breath catch sharp in his chest.

And at your side—Lord Russ.

His hand offered to you with polished grace, his smile easy, his posture perfect as he guided you toward the grand staircase. Your sisters trailed behind, whispering and giggling; your mother glowed with approval, while your father ambled with his usual amused smirk.

Mr. Price stopped dead, cane striking the floor. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "That one again? Walking off with her like he's already written his vows."

John's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the slope of your shoulders, the gleam of pearls against your skin, the way your hand rested so lightly in Russ's. "Aye," he said, voice low, rough.

Gaz's smirk was sharp, knowing. "Not looking too happy, Captain. I'd say he's a rival worth noting."

Mr. Price harrumphed. "Rival or not, don't you let him plant himself too deep. She's a diamond, boy, and diamonds attract grasping fingers. You'd better decide whether you mean to fight for her, or stand there clenching your teeth while some lordling leads her into the shadows."

John's eyes never left you as you disappeared up the staircase toward your family's box. He exhaled slow, smoke and fire caught in his chest.

"It was decided since orchids," he muttered.

The usher led your family into one of the gilded theatre boxes, plush with velvet seats and trimmed in gold leaf. The chandeliers blazed overhead, casting the stage below in pools of light, though the true spectacle was not the play to come — it was the audience itself, whispering, watching, judging.

Lord Russ offered his arm gallantly as you stepped inside, steadying you as though the floor itself might trip you. "Careful, my Lady," he said smoothly, his smile easy. "We cannot have London's diamond tumbling before the performance even begins."

Your mother beamed as though he'd hung the moon. "So attentive, Lord Russ. So considerate."

"Quite," he said modestly, bowing slightly before helping your sisters into their seats as well. Your father collapsed comfortably into a corner chair, already reaching for the wine the theatre staff had left chilled.

Russ claimed the space beside you, his shoulder brushing yours just slightly, enough to make your mother's fan flutter furiously with approval. "I trust you enjoy the theatre?" he asked, leaning just close enough for the words to carry over the hum of the lobby below.

"I do," you replied, polite as ever, though your voice held little warmth.

"Excellent," he said, clearly pleased. "There is something profoundly civilizing about it, is there not? One leaves reminded of our finer sensibilities of love, honor, duty."

Your sisters snickered behind gloved hands, but your mother silenced them with a snap of her fan. "Yes, yes," she said quickly. "Quite right. Our family values the arts most highly. Do we not, my dear?"

You forced a smile, dipping your chin. "Indeed."

Russ relaxed back into his seat, perfectly content, while your mother fussed over the fall of your gown, the tilt of your necklace, whispering reminders about posture and poise. Every touch, every murmur was meant to polish you further for display.

But your heart was elsewhere.

You scanned the lobby below, the throng of velvet coats and silk skirts, searching for a tall figure with broad shoulders, a beard shadowed under candlelight. Searching for eyes that, when they found yours, left your body humming for hours after.

But he was not there, and yet you felt him like a breeze upon the nape of your neck, where the pearls clasped, still yet to chase the warmth of your heat.

The curtain had only just lifted when another ripple swept through the crowd. The lobby doors opened, and a cluster of latecomers were ushered into one of the side aisles.

Captain John Price entered, his father at his side, Gaz following with easy composure. Their presence drew immediate whispers — soldiers again, here in velvet and candlelight, invading a world that was supposed to belong to dukes and marquesses alone.

They were shown to a box directly across from yours. Not the finest in the house, but prominent enough that every gaze could mark their entrance.

John stepped inside, broad shoulders cutting a stark line against the gilt and velvet, his beard catching the glow of chandeliers. He removed his hat, nodding politely to the usher, his manner restrained, but his eyes...

His eyes found you at once.

Light blue silk, pearls at your throat, your posture straight but tense beneath your mother's fussing. Lord Russ leaned too close at your side, whispering something meant to impress. Your sisters giggled behind gloved hands.

But John saw none of that.
Only you.

The breath left your chest as you caught his gaze across the expanse of the theatre. The stage below vanished, the audience blurred. It was only his eyes, steady and burning, cutting through the candlelight as though there were no distance at all.

Your fan fluttered open in your hand, though you barely remembered moving. Heat climbed your neck, your cheeks flushing, your heart stammering. You forced yourself to glance back toward the stage, to nod politely at Russ's comment, but your eyes betrayed you again, drawn inexorably across the aisle.

And still, John looked. Gazed. Stared. Unflinching. Unapologetic.

Beside him, Mr. Price leaned on his cane, lips twitching into the smirk of a man who had seen the exchange and needed no words to name it. Gaz hid a grin behind his hand.

The theatre dimmed, lanterns lowered until only the stage glowed, a bright island of painted scenery and actors declaiming in sonorous tones. The audience hushed, fans stilled, the only sound the rustle of silk skirts and the creak of velvet seats.

You sat perfectly poised beside Lord Russ, your mother straight and stiff at your other side, your sisters leaning eagerly forward to catch every word. The performance should have claimed your attention, the tragic heroine, the gallant hero, the clever turns of wit.

And you felt him.

Even across the aisle, beyond chandeliers and shadows, you felt his gaze settle on you like heat. It pricked at the nape of your neck, traced along your shoulders, coiled down your spine until your fingers itched to grip your fan tighter.

You shifted, eyes fixed stubbornly on the stage. Yet every line spoken faded before it reached your ears. All you could hear was the echo of his words from the terrace: You have no idea how hard I fight...

At last, unable to bear it, you let your gaze wander. Slowly, carefully, you turned your head.

And there he was.

John Price sat tall in the shadows of his box, one broad arm resting on the gilt rail, his beard caught in the faint glow. His eyes were locked on you, steady, unwavering, unreadable to the crowd but burning hot enough that you felt the blush rise in your cheeks instantly.

Your lips curved before you could stop them, a soft, secret smile. Just for him.

His mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of a grin beneath his beard, but his eyes never moved. Not even as Russ leaned closer to murmur something about the brilliance of the actors, his words falling on ears that no longer heard.

The stage blazed, the heroine wept, the audience sighed, but the only drama you knew was silent, stretched across the darkness between two boxes, a soldier's stare and a diamond's smile lighting a fire no curtain could dim.

The play unfolded in grand strokes, declarations of love, the clash of betrayal, a heroine wringing her hands in despair. The audience gasped and murmured at all the proper moments. Your sisters clung to one another in rapture, whispering their predictions of the ending.

And you... you tried to listen. Truly, you did.

But Lord Russ leaned closer at every turn, his voice low and confident.
"Magnificent writing, is it not? This playwright will be remembered for decades."

You smiled politely, nodding, though the words washed past you.

"Note the symmetry — the hero and villain are two sides of the same coin. A masterful metaphor."

"Yes, indeed," you murmured faintly, though your eyes had already strayed.

Across the aisle, John was still watching.

He sat beside his father, who was clearly delighting in both the performance and his son's obvious distraction, and Gaz, whose expression carried the faintest smirk each time he caught John staring.

John didn't bother to look at the stage. His gaze was fixed on you, steady, heavy, claiming. Even in shadow you could feel it, warming your skin more than the lamps and the crowded air ever could.

Russ shifted, oblivious. "I should like to hear your opinion on the moral of this tale," he said earnestly. "Do you think love can truly redeem a man if such sin?"

Your throat tightened. The irony was almost cruel.

"I think..." You hesitated, your fan trembling against your palm. "I think some men cannot help but be redeemed by love, whether they seek it or not."

Russ blinked, startled by the weight of your answer. But before he could reply, your gaze betrayed you once more, slipping across the house.

And there he was.

John leaned forward now, his forearms braced against the gilt rail, the line of his shoulders broad, immovable. His eyes caught yours in the dim light, steady, intent, unwavering.

Your lips curved again, softer this time, a smile born not of coyness but of something warmer, truer. The tiniest lift of your chin, as though acknowledging him in the silence between acts.

Gaz muttered something at his side, and Mr. Price chuckled, but John did not move, did not look away.

The heroine wailed on stage. The audience sighed. Russ tried again with some clever observation about the actor's delivery.

But you hardly heard. The play's true performance was playing out across the darkened house, no lines spoken, no scripts followed, only the exchange of glances and the unspoken promise that this story was already yours.

The curtain fell, and the house erupted in applause, fans snapping open, gentlemen stamping their feet against the floorboards. A hum of voices rose instantly, laughter, gossip, the sharp rustle of silk as the audience spilled toward the lobby for refreshment.

Your mother stood at once, gathering her daughters with a sharp clap of her fan. "Come. It is not enough to be seen, one must converse."

Your father chuckled, offering you his arm with a wink. "Do not fret, my dear. The play is forgotten already. Now comes the real performance."

Russ was quick to your side, his hand at your elbow as he guided you toward the gilded staircase. "Allow me, my Lady," he murmured, his smile easy. He leaned close as the crowd pressed in, speaking just loud enough for you to hear. "I must confess, I hardly watched the play. It was your company that held me."

Your lips curved in polite acknowledgment, though your heart fluttered for another reason entirely. For even as Russ escorted you into the throng, your gaze flicked instinctively across the theatre, and there, in the shadow of another staircase, John emerged.

He cut through the swell of velvet coats and powdered wigs with his father and Gaz in tow. Mr. Price looked positively gleeful, his cane tapping in rhythm to the gossip already buzzing around them. Gaz was composed, his eyes scanning, but John...

John was already watching you.

The crowd shifted, jewels flashing, voices rising in a wave of speculation. The diamond... the soldier... surely not here, not together...

Your mother's grip on your arm tightened as though she might anchor you in place. "Remember yourself," she hissed, her fan snapping furiously. "Smile for Lord Russ, not for—"

But you weren't listening. Your eyes were locked across the lobby, where John Price stood steady in the whirl of London's finest, his gaze burning through every barrier of silk and pearl between you.

The lobby swirled with velvet coats, jeweled gowns, the clink of glasses and rustle of programs. Conversations collided in a storm of gossip, the very air buzzing with curiosity.

And then you saw him moving toward you.

John Price, broad shoulders cutting through the crowd, the set of his jaw steady, his father at his side looking positively delighted, Gaz trailing with a smirk as though he had already written the next line of Whistledown himself.

Your mother stiffened. Russ at your elbow cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders even higher, his polite smile faltering. Your brother bristled, already stepping half a pace forward as though he might once again plant himself as a wall.

But you didn't care.

The moment John's eyes caught yours, you couldn't hold back. Your lips curved wide, your heart leapt, and before you could remember what ought to be proper, the word burst from you like sunlight breaking cloud.

"Captain Price!"

Heads turned at once. The crowd rippled with gasps and murmurs... She greeted him. So warmly. So enthusiastically. So publicly.

Your voice carried, bright and clear, warm with unmistakable pleasure. "How very good to see you."

John slowed, his composure steady, but the faint curve of his mouth betrayed him. That single, genuine smile beneath his beard was meant only for you.

"My Lady," he said, bowing low. His voice was rough velvet, lower than propriety demanded. "The pleasure is mine."

Your sisters tittered behind their gloves, unable to contain their delight. Your father coughed into his wineglass to disguise his grin. Your mother snapped her fan so sharply it sounded like a pistol shot. Russ's jaw tightened, his hand withdrawing from your elbow as though singed.

And still you glowed, eyes locked on John's, every inch of your bearing alight with something no title could polish away.

Lord Russ recovered quickly, his smooth smile snapping back into place like a mask. He bowed, polished and precise, then extended his hand toward John.

"Captain Price," Russ said pleasantly, though his eyes gleamed with the faintest edge. "I have heard much of you this Season. Your name is... on quite a few lips."

John clasped his hand once, firm, nothing more. "So I've gathered." His tone was flat, unimpressed, neither deferential nor hostile, simply immovable.

Russ's smile tightened a fraction. He turned back toward you, but John had already shifted his focus, bowing low to your mother and father.

"Lord, Lady."

Your mother's fan snapped open, fluttering furiously. "Captain," she said tightly, her voice straining for politeness. "What an... unexpected encounter."

But your father's face broke into a grin. "Price!" He clapped John heartily on the arm, ignoring your mother's sharp intake of breath. "I told you we'd have a glass at the club before the week was out."

John's lips twitched into something warmer, his bow dipping. "So you did, my Lord. I look forward to it."

Your father chuckled, clearly delighted, while your mother all but bristled beside him. Russ cleared his throat, shifting uneasily, his polished charm faltering at the ease between John and your father.

Your sisters whispered furiously behind their gloves, eyes wide as saucers. The crowd around you leaned in closer, whispers buzzing like a hive: The soldier, welcomed by the father... what does it mean?

You could hardly breathe. Your cheeks warmed, your lips threatened to curve again, and though propriety screamed against it, your eyes found John's, steady, unflinching, and utterly unreadable to everyone but you.

The hum of the lobby thickened, voices rising with the clink of glasses and the rustle of silks. The Queen's attendants glided by, sharp-eyed, while Lady Danbury prowled with her cane, watching as if for sport.

"Captain Price."

Your brother's voice cut through the noise like a blade. He stepped squarely between John and your father, his bow stiff, his posture rigid. "Allow me to ensure the introductions are... complete." He gestured broadly, his eyes glinting. "Lord Russ, of Kent. Lord Ashworth is also present, as are several other gentlemen of appropriate rank who have shown interest in my sister."

The words landed like stones. Russ inclined his head smoothly, satisfied. Your mother's fan snapped open again, furious wings.

But John only inclined his head once, polite, steady, wholly unimpressed. "I've made their acquaintance," he said simply.

Your brother's jaw flexed. Before he could press further, your father cleared his throat, ever the peacemaker. "Enough of this posturing. My daughters would like refreshment before the curtain rises again."

Within moments, you were swept with your family into the press of bodies toward the refreshment room. Footmen offered trays of lemonade and wine, crystal glasses clinking as ladies chattered in little knots.

It was chaos, the perfect cover.

You reached for a glass of lemonade, the cool cut crystal biting against your glove, and felt it. A shadow at your shoulder. A voice low and rough, just for you.

"You are a vision tonight."

The words sank into your skin, hotter than the candlelight. You froze, pulse stuttering, the glass trembling faintly in your hand. Slowly, daringly, you glanced up.

John was there, so close the breadth of a step could have placed you against him. His beard caught the glow of the lamps, his eyes dark and intent, his presence overwhelming in the narrow hall.

Your lips parted, though no words came. The heat in your chest coiled downward, sinful, improper. You wanted — Oh, how you wanted... to feel the truth of that voice against your skin, his hand steadying you where no eyes could see.

But the moment cracked as your sister squealed for more sweets, and Russ reappeared at your other elbow, claiming space once more.

John had already straightened, already bowed, his mask in place. But the ghost of his words lingered, curling low in your belly like fire waiting for tinder.

You wished achingly, that propriety would snap and allow you one touch, one stolen moment longer.

The family filed back into your gilded box, silks rustling, fans fluttering, the murmur of the crowd surging as the interval gave way to the second act.

Your mother was alight, her cheeks flushed with triumph. "Lord Russ has been perfectly attentive. Perfectly appropriate. You see, my dear? This is how the Season ought to proceed. Not with orchids and soldiers, but with titles and promise."

Russ inclined his head, clearly pleased, his smile modest as though he hadn't heard every word.

Your brother leaned back in his chair with smug satisfaction, arms crossed. "At last, a proper gentleman to take an interest. Perhaps now Captain Price will realize he's overstepped."

Your sisters whispered behind their gloves, but their eyes glittered with mischief. Your father poured another glass of wine and offered no more than a chuckle, which only made your mother huff louder.

And you—

You could not hear them. Not really.

You were still in the hall. Still clutching the crystal glass, his shadow warm against your shoulder, his voice rough and low as it sank into your skin.

You are a vision tonight.

The words burned through you, carried down to your very fingertips. You shifted in your seat, the silk of your gown clinging too warmly, your pearls heavy against your throat.

Your mind betrayed you.

You wondered what his hands might feel like if he hadn't pulled away. Would they be gentle, cradling, reverent — or would the soldier in him press hard, grip tight, leave you gasping against the rail of that terrace?

Heat flooded your cheeks. You shifted again, unable to still the restless pulse of your body.

Has he touched others like that? The thought sliced through, sharp and sudden. Of course he had. A man of war, years older, scarred and seasoned — he would not be innocent.

Jealousy flared, hot and unfamiliar, twisting low in your belly. Had another woman felt the scrape of that beard at her throat? Had others known the weight of his hands where you only dreamed of them?

You fanned yourself quickly, desperate to hide the flush that had nothing to do with the crowded heat of the theatre. Your mother prattled on about Russ, your brother glowered across the aisle toward the Price box, and Russ leaned once more to whisper some clever remark about the actors.

But your eyes strayed again.

And there he was.

John Price sat tall, steady, his face shadowed but his gaze clear — locked on you, unyielding, as though he'd plucked every improper thought straight from your mind.

Your chest rose and fell, too fast, too warm, your pearls straining against your breath. You snapped your fan shut, lips curving just enough for him to see.

The play's heroine cried her lines on stage. But the true drama was yours — a silent storm of want and restraint, of jealousy and hunger, of a soldier's eyes and a diamond's blush across the candlelit dark.

The night air in London was sharp as John left the theatre, his coat pulled close, his father walking with the brisk satisfaction of a man who had drunk in every scandal and savored it.

By the time they reached the townhouse, the lamps within already burned bright. The unmistakable sound of raucous laughter spilled into the street before the footman even opened the door.

Inside, Soap and Ghost had made themselves very much at home.

Soap lounged in one of the drawing-room chairs, a glass of brandy clutched in his hand, his tie undone, cheeks flushed from drink. "Ah, Captain!" he crowed, sloshing the amber liquid dangerously. "How was the theatre? Did you clap like a good lad?"

Ghost leaned against the mantel, a bottle half-empty in his grip, mask discarded for once but his expression still unreadable. "He didn't clap," he muttered. "Didn't even watch. Stared at her." His words were flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched as if mocking.

John grunted, tugging off his gloves. "You're both drunk."

Soap lifted his glass in salute. "And you're in love."

Mr. Price chuckled, tapping his cane against the floor. "The boy isn't wrong."

John exhaled, sinking into a chair across from them. His beard itched with the memory of clenching his jaw, of holding his words on the terrace, of watching you shine beneath pearls and candlelight. "It's not love."

His father arched a brow. "Then what is it?"

For a moment John didn't answer. He stared at the fire, watching the flames curl, feeling the heat lick against his face. Finally, his voice came low, steady.

"She's the one."

Soap let out a whoop, brandy nearly spilling onto the carpet. Ghost rolled his eyes and took another long pull from the bottle.

Mr. Price only leaned forward, eyes bright, his voice carrying the weight of a man who'd lived long enough to know the truth when he heard it. "You're sure."

John's gaze hardened, fixed on the fire. "Aye. If I'm to marry, it'll be her. I'm certain."

Silence settled for a moment, even Soap sobered by the conviction in his tone. Ghost tilted his head, considering, but said nothing.

Mr. Price leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Then you'd best move quickly, son. A diamond draws many hands, but it only takes one steady grip to claim her. Don't let it be anyone else's."

John's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists against his knees. His father's words struck deep, stoking the fire already burning in his chest.

He had fought battles. He had commanded men. He had endured war.

But for the first time, John Price knew exactly what he wanted beyond all of it.

And he would not let her slip away.

Chapter Text

The theatre had been a blaze of light and whispers, and yet the next morning dawned as it always did — soft gray through your curtains, the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the rattle of breakfast trays arriving in the dining room.

You rose later than usual, your body still restless, your dreams full of shadowed terraces and the scrape of a soldier's beard against your throat. The orchids in your room had begun to open further, their scent rich and insistent, and you could hardly look at them without recalling his voice in the hall: You are a vision tonight.

At breakfast your mother spoke almost entirely of Lord Russ.
"He was perfectly attentive last night," she said with satisfaction. "If you are to be seen, my dear, better to have such a gentleman at your side than that war torn Captain. Russ is steady, polished. Everyone remarked upon it."

Your brother agreed with a smug hum, while your sisters rolled their eyes behind their teacups. Your father hid his grin behind his paper, only interjecting once to mutter, "A Captain has steadiness enough."

Afterward, the morning blurred into the rituals of the ton.

First came the callers.

Notes and bouquets arrived in a steady trickle, borne in on silver trays by footmen who'd long since stopped looking surprised at the frequency. Cards were laid out upon the salver for your inspection, each one a careful little plea in ink.

Lord Russ's card sat proudly atop the pile.

His script was neat and practiced — an elegant hand that spoke of years spent at desks and in libraries rather than on battlefields. His note was exactly what it ought to be: respectful, admiring, hinting gently at the pleasure he'd taken in escorting you through the theatre lobby and to your box. Your mother read it twice, lips curving with approval.

"See?" she murmured, tapping the edge of the card. "Steady. Proper. Attentive. This is how gentlemen behave."

Beneath Russ's card were two others — a young viscount whose mother had all but pushed him in your direction at Lady Danbury's ball, and a marquess with an estate so vast your brother had immediately leaned over your shoulder to remark upon its acreage.

"Excellent company," he declared. "Exactly the sort of gentlemen you ought to encourage."

You replied to each with the requisite grace, pen moving efficiently over thick, cream paper. You thanked Lord Russ for his escort and his kind words. You assured the viscount and the marquess that you would be delighted to honor their claims upon your dance card at Lady Armitage's supper, should your schedules align.

The words were correct.
They simply did not stir you.

While you wrote, your sisters turned the morning into a storm of ribbons and speculation.

"If Lady Armitage invites us," one said breathlessly, "I shall wear the blue with the pearl trim. It sets my eyes off perfectly."

"The blue makes you look pale," the other countered, tying and untying a length of rose-colored ribbon around her wrist. "You ought to wear the green. Besides, if our sister is to be the jewel on display again, we must at least attempt not to fade entirely beside her."

They both dissolved into giggles, glancing at you from beneath their lashes, waiting — hoping — you might roll your eyes and confess something scandalous about the Captain in the theatre box opposite.

You did not.

You smiled, you teased them about their endless concern for ribbons, and you bent back over your letters. But your hand tightened on the pen each time your mind drifted — not to Russ's polished bow, nor to the eager viscount or the solemn marquess, but to a soldier's steady gaze cutting through the dark.

Your mother spent the better part of the morning prowling over the social calendar like a general over a battle map.

"There will be a promenade in Hyde Park on Thursday," she said, tapping the date with the end of her fan. "We shall go. It will not hurt you to be seen taking the air with Lord Russ."

You opened your mouth, but she moved on.

"Lady Armitage's supper, of course... we must send our acceptance at once. And perhaps a small carriage party before then — a drive along the Serpentine? It will signal to the ton that we are not hiding. Scandal or not, we remain very much in play."

She glanced sharply at you over the rim of her fan.

"And you, my dear, will write Lord Russ more than a mere line or two. Encourage him. He showed true interest last night, and all London saw it. A girl cannot live on drama and orchids alone. Stability is the stuff of marriage."

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, the portrait of an obedient daughter. "Yes, Mama."

But even as you said it, your gaze slid — almost of its own accord — to the vase of orchids on the side table.

They had opened further in the morning light, pale petals unfurling with shameless delicacy. Their scent perfumed the entire room now: rich, clean, faintly wild beneath the civility.

You should have been thinking of Russ's card.
Of carriage rides and promenades.
Of the safety and certainty your mother so desperately wanted for you.

Instead, your mind wandered back to the theatre — to the heat of John Price's eyes across the house, the way his gaze held you as though the stage, the actors, the entire glittering audience had ceased to exist.

You remembered the feel of his presence at your back in the refreshment hall, that low, rough voice brushing your ear:

You are a vision tonight.

Your fingers itched around the pen; your pulse flickered traitorously.

Every bouquet that arrived, no matter how fragrant, seemed dull beside those orchids.

Every carefully worded note from a titled lord felt thin against the memory of a Captain who spoke little but meant everything when he did.

And so the ton pressed forward with its usual bustle — callers received, cards answered, promenades planned, your mother scheming and your sisters fussing — while you played your part with perfect grace.

You smiled. You curtsied. You wrote the letters expected of you.

But beneath the lace and composure, your heart was elsewhere.

Somewhere in London, Captain John Price was thinking of you.

And you longed — achingly, impossibly — for the next time fate would bring your paths together again.

The morning sun filtered through the townhouse windows, catching dust motes in the air. John sat at the dining table, boots stretched toward the fire, a cup of black coffee cooling in his hand. His head was not aching — he hadn't drunk like Soap or Ghost the night before — but his mind was heavy, full of you.

Mr. Price sat opposite him, cane propped against the table, newspaper folded and ignored. He had been watching his son for some time, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

"Well, boy," he said at last, "you've danced with her, you've stared at her across a theatre, and half of London is still gossiping themselves hoarse. What comes next?"

John took a slow sip of coffee. "There's no rushing these things."

"Rushing?" His father barked a laugh. "You've fought battles that moved faster than this. She's diamond of the Season — dukes and lords will not wait politely for you to make up your mind."

John's jaw tightened. "I've made up my mind."

"Then act like it," Mr. Price shot back, tapping his cane against the floor. "Call on her again. Properly. Not skulking about ballrooms and lobbies. You want her? Court her like a gentleman. Walk with her in daylight. Let the world see she's chosen a soldier."

John looked down into his cup, the dark surface rippling with the tight curl of his hand. He thought of you — pearls glowing in lamplight, your smile breaking across the theatre box, the flush in your cheeks when his words brushed your ear.

He thought of the suitors, too. Russ. Ashworth. Polished men with titles and lands. Men who had the approval of your mother, perhaps even your brother.

But your father. He remembered the easy clap of the Lord's hand on his arm in the theatre lobby, the grin of welcome. He hadn't imagined it.

Mr. Price leaned forward, his voice lower now, rough with sincerity. "John. You've been a soldier long enough to know when the ground is slipping beneath you. If you want her, put your boots down and claim it. Take her for a promenade. Make it known. Or you'll find yourself watching another man lead her down the path instead."

John set the cup aside, rising to his feet. His shoulders were squared, his decision made.

"I'll call on her tomorrow."

Mr. Price smiled, satisfied, and leaned back with a sigh. "That's my boy."

White's was thick with smoke and chatter, the air rich with port and gossip. The walls fairly hummed with the latest scandal, and John knew before he even crossed the threshold that Whistledown's ink had already stained half the talk.

Soap sprawled in a leather chair by the fire, a glass of something amber in his hand, his grin wide as the Thames. "Captain!" he bellowed as John entered. "The very man himself. You've set London ablaze!"

Gaz raised his glass with a lazy smirk. "Couldn't even hear the play for the whispers last night. You and her, staring across the boxes—half the ladies swooned, half the lords nearly swallowed their own tongues."

Ghost was there too, mask firmly in place even in a gentlemen's club, silent as stone at the edge of the circle. He merely inclined his head at John, but the tilt of it suggested he had been listening to every word.

John dropped into a chair with a grunt, tugging at his gloves. "You two never tire of talking."

"Not when the talk is about you," Soap shot back gleefully. He leaned forward, eyes bright with mischief. "The diamond of the Season, no less! Tell us, Captain, will you send more orchids? Or perhaps parade through Hyde Park with her on your arm? Give us a show, aye?"

John ignored him, signaling for a drink. His gaze drifted across the crowded room — lords in fine coats, wigs powdered white, their voices buzzing in sharp clusters. He caught sight of your brother in one corner, gesturing sharply as he spoke with a group of peers.

Gaz followed his gaze, his smirk fading. "He's trying to box you out. Rallying the others, saying you've no business in the diamond's orbit."

John's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Soap snorted, waving his hand. "Let him bark. Dogs do it best when they've no teeth."

It was Ghost who finally spoke, voice low, steady. "He's not wrong about one thing. You've no title. No lands. All you've got is your name, your reputation, and your will. That's enough to win her heart. But is it enough to hold her in this room?"

Silence settled for a beat, broken only by the crackle of the fire and Soap sloshing his drink.

John leaned back, broad shoulders filling the chair, his expression hardening. "I've fought for less and won." His voice was iron, quiet but unyielding. "I'll not lose her to men who think ink and title are worth more than steel and steadiness."

Soap whooped, slamming his glass against the table. "There's the Captain! That's the talk!"

Gaz smirked again, lifting his glass. "Then you'd best start acting the part. She's waiting."

John's eyes drifted once more to your brother across the room, then back to the fire.

His decision had been made.

Tomorrow, he would call on you.

And this time, nothing would stop him.

The morning began as all others did — the clink of china, the chatter of your sisters, your father hidden behind his paper, your mother fussing with her fan. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching on silver and crystal, gilding the breakfast table in warmth.

You had barely finished your tea when the sharp rap of the knocker echoed through the house.

Your sisters froze mid-laugh. Your mother's fan snapped open with a gasp. "So early?" she whispered. "It cannot be Lord Russ — he would never appear without sending a note first. Nor Ashworth, he prefers to make an entrance at noon. Who—"

The butler appeared in the doorway, his voice steady but carrying enough weight to silence even your brother's grumbling. "Captain John Price."

The room stilled.

Your fork slipped against your plate. Heat rushed to your cheeks at the sound of his name spoken aloud in your home, the air thick with it.

Your sisters squealed into their napkins, whispering furiously. "The captain! He's here! He's here!"

Your mother fanned herself so hard you feared she might take flight. "Impossible. Utterly improper. At this hour—"

"Proper enough," your father interrupted with a smirk, lowering his paper at last. "The man shows initiative. I'll see him." He rose easily, ignoring your mother's protest, and strode toward the hall.

You sat frozen in your chair, heart hammering, palms damp against your skirts. The image of him filled your mind in an instant — broad shoulders in the morning light, his eyes steady, his voice low as he whispered you are a vision tonight.

Your mother hissed, leaning across the table. "Compose yourself. Do not look so flushed. You will not give him the satisfaction of thinking you—"

But she broke off, because you were already rising, your pulse too wild to ignore.

In the hall beyond, boots thudded softly against polished wood.

He had come.

Your father's voice carried down the hall, warm and booming with welcome. "Price! Early, eh? I like that. Shows mettle. Come in, come in."

John's deeper rumble followed, polite, steady. "Thank you, my lord. Forgive the hour. I thought it best not to lose the day."

Your pulse jumped.

Your father led him past the grand staircase toward the drawing room, the polished cane of your mother's disapproval tapping faintly behind you in your mind. But your father sounded utterly delighted, his words carrying even as doors opened: "We'll sit in here. The ladies will join us shortly. My wife will fuss, of course, but pay her no mind."

You lingered in the corridor for half a heartbeat, smoothing your skirts, pressing cool fingers against your heated cheeks. Your sisters tittered from the stairwell, whispering furiously. One hissed, "He's here for you!" The other clutched her ribbons as though the house itself might faint.

Drawing in a steady breath, you stepped forward.

The door swung open at your father's call, and you entered the drawing room with all the composure you could muster.

There he was.

John Price rose at once from the chair he had only just taken, bowing low, his eyes catching yours the instant you crossed the threshold. Daylight softened him — his coat dark but pressed, his boots gleaming, his beard trimmed neat — yet nothing could soften the heat in his gaze.

"My Lady," he said, voice low, steady, yet carrying a weight that settled deep in your chest.

Your lips curved faintly, calm despite the storm inside. "Captain."

Your father beamed at the both of you, oblivious or entirely too pleased. "Well then. Let us have a proper visit. Sit, sit."

You moved toward the settee, your hands folded neatly in your lap, every inch the diamond of the Season — but beneath the silk and pearls, your heart thundered, alive with the thrill of knowing: he had come for you.

The drawing room gleamed in the morning light — polished tables, crystal vases catching the sun, orchids still blooming proudly on the mantel. Your mother perched near them like a sentinel, fan snapping open and closed in restless rhythm. Your sisters crowded together near the window, barely concealing their eager smiles behind lace handkerchiefs.

Your father settled into his armchair with a satisfied sigh. "So, Captain, London's already made enough of you and my daughter to fill half the morning paper. Tell me — what brings you here today?"

John inclined his head respectfully, his posture as precise as if he stood before a general. "I thought it right to call properly, my lord. To pay my respects to your household." His gaze flicked to you briefly, warm, steady. "And to see if she might permit me the honor of her company."

Your mother's fan clattered against her lap. "The honor— Captain, this is highly irregular. My daughter has numerous callers already, gentlemen of fine rank and promise."

Your father chuckled, waving her off. "And yet here he sits, darling. Let him speak."

John turned toward your mother, his voice polite but unyielding. "I am no lord, my lady. I have no grand estate to boast of. But I have my name, my commission, and my word. I don't trifle in matters of the heart. If I ask your daughter's time, it is because I mean it with seriousness."

The words landed heavily, silencing even your sisters' whispers.

Your mother pursed her lips, clearly torn between horror and the undeniable force in his tone.

Your father's eyes gleamed. "Well said. London has enough men who boast and posture. I'd rather hear from one who means what he says." He leaned back, sipping his wine though it was barely midday. "So. What is it you propose, Captain?"

John looked to you then, his gaze locking with yours. His voice softened, though it still carried. "A promenade, my lord. If she is willing, I should like to walk with her. In daylight, before all society, as is proper."

Your breath caught, your gloved hands tightening in your lap. He was asking, formally, in front of your parents, with a steadiness that left no room for jest.

Your sisters nearly squealed. Your mother looked as though she might faint. Your father's grin widened.

And all the while, John's eyes stayed on you, waiting for your answer.

You sat frozen on the settee, your heart hammering so loud you feared the entire room might hear it. A promenade. With him. Proper, public, sanctioned. Every inch of you screamed yes — screamed it so loudly you wanted to leap to your feet, take his hand, and let him lead you out into the daylight at once.

But your lips stayed shut. Your composure held, the diamond mask clamped firmly over the tempest inside.

The silence stretched.

Your mother snapped her fan open with a sharp crack. "A promenade?" she echoed, her voice high, her brows lifting toward the ceiling. She glanced at your father, clearly expecting him to refuse. But he only sipped his wine again, looking utterly amused.

So she turned her fan like a sword, stabbing the air. "If such a thing is to be entertained — and that is a very large if — it shall not be without conditions."

Your sisters clutched each other's arms, eyes wide, waiting.

"Chaperoned," your mother declared, nodding firmly. "At all times. My daughter will not be paraded through Hyde Park on the arm of a soldier without protection."

John bowed his head slightly, unbothered. "Of course, my lady. I would expect nothing less."

Your mother's eyes gleamed with triumph as she added, "Her brother will accompany."

Your brother looked up from where he stood near the mantel, his jaw tightening. He had clearly not been consulted before being volunteered, but his eyes met John's across the room with unspoken challenge.

The tension crackled.

John only inclined his head again, steady. "Then I shall be glad of his company."

Your breath rushed out at last, your pulse tripping over itself. You wanted to laugh, to weep, to throw your arms around him in gratitude — and yet you sat perfectly poised, lips curved in the faintest polite smile, as though you weren't burning from the inside out.

The agreement had been made, your mother's conditions laid neatly on the table like cards in a game she believed she had won. Your father looked amused, your brother stiff, your sisters quivering with delight. By rights, the visit should have ended then — a bow, a farewell, the promise of tomorrow's promenade.

But John did not rise.

Instead, he turned back to you. Not bold enough to alarm your mother, not careless enough to spark open scandal, but steady, deliberate. His gaze found yours and held it, pulling you into its gravity.

"Lady ___," he said quietly, as though the rest of the room weren't watching with hawk eyes, "have you walked the park much this Season?"

You managed to keep your tone smooth, though your heart leapt. "Only once or twice."

"Then I am glad for the excuse," he said. His voice was simple, but beneath it thrummed something deeper — a man speaking less of parks and more of the time he craved at your side.

Your sisters elbowed one another furiously, their barely-stifled giggles rattling the windowpanes.

Russ's name was poised on your mother's tongue, you could see it — but John pressed forward, unruffled. "And do you favor roses, or orchids?"

Your eyes widened before you could catch yourself. The question was innocent enough to pass under society's scrutiny — but you knew. The orchids on your mantel knew. Your sisters certainly knew, judging by their gasps.

You swallowed, cheeks heating. "Both," you said softly. "Though orchids have a way of surprising one."

The corner of his mouth twitched, beard catching the sunlight. He said nothing more, but the silence that followed carried its own weight — a shared secret blooming in plain sight.

Your brother cleared his throat like a cannon shot. "It grows late, Captain."

John inclined his head toward him, utterly unbothered. "Indeed. I won't keep your sister from her day." But his eyes flicked back to you one last time, lingering, before he rose to his feet.

Your father clapped his hand on John's shoulder warmly. "Tomorrow then, Captain. We'll see how steady you are on London's most treacherous field — Hyde Park."

Your mother snapped her fan shut with a crack, her lips tight. "Yes. Tomorrow."

John bowed once more to your mother and father, steady and respectful, and offered a curt nod to your brother. Your sisters nearly toppled each other in their curtsies, smothering their giggles behind gloved hands.

Your father walked him to the door with an ease that scandalized your mother. "Until tomorrow, Captain," he said warmly, clapping John's arm once more.

John inclined his head. "My lord."

And then his gaze found you.

It was only a moment — but long enough for the air to thicken, for your cheeks to heat, for your fingers to clutch at your skirts as though to keep yourself rooted. His eyes held yours with the same steady weight they had in the theatre, across the ballroom, on the terrace.

You managed the smallest smile, meant to be polite, but it betrayed you — curving softer, warmer, brighter than you intended.

His own mouth answered, a flicker beneath his beard, fleeting but real.

Your brother cleared his throat sharply, your mother snapped her fan again, but none of it mattered. That single exchange was more binding than a dozen waltzes.

John turned at last, broad shoulders filling the doorway as he stepped out into the daylight. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, but the echo of his eyes, his smile, lingered like a secret pressed into your hand.

Tomorrow could not come fast enough.

The carriage rocked gently as it rumbled down the cobblestone streets, the morning air sharp through the half-drawn window. John leaned back against the seat, gloves discarded, one hand braced on his knee. His father sat opposite, cane propped between them, watching his son with the patient silence of a man who knew when words were best left unspoken.

John's thoughts were not patient.

He could still see you in the drawing room, the morning light painting your gown, the faint smile you'd given him as he bowed farewell. Orchids on the mantel. Pearls at your throat. The soft heat that had bloomed in your eyes when he'd asked for your time.

That alone should have filled him — enough to steady a man, enough to keep his steps light all the way home.

But then came the memory of your brother.

The stiff posture, the cutting words, the way he thrust lords and dukes forward as though their titles alone made them worthy. As though John had no right to even breathe in your presence.

John's jaw tightened. He had seen men like that before — pampered, soft, proud of nothing but names they'd inherited. Men who had never fought, never bled, never stood their ground while bullets cut the air.

What did such a man know of protecting you? Of earning the right to stand beside you?

Nothing.

John shifted in his seat, the leather creaking beneath his broad frame. His hands itched for something solid — a musket, a blade, anything to remind your brother what true strength looked like. But this was no battlefield. This was society's game. And John would not be bested by some lordling who'd never dirtied his boots outside of Hyde Park.

He exhaled slow, steady. No, he would not be dominated. Not by your brother's glowers, not by Russ's polished smile, not by Ashworth's boasts.

He had faced worse. He had endured the roar of cannon fire, the stench of smoke and blood, the weight of command. He could endure this. More than endure it — he could win it.

His father finally spoke, his voice low, amused. "You're burning holes in the floor with that stare. Thinking of the girl?"

John's eyes lifted, steady, burning. "Thinking of her. And the fool who stands in the way."

Mr. Price chuckled, tapping his cane against the floor. "Then prove him a fool, son. Don't give him a chance to win."

The carriage rolled on, carrying John deeper into London's heart — and closer to the battle he knew was his to fight.

The door had barely shut behind John before the drawing room filled with noise. Your sisters squealed into each other's shoulders, your mother snapped her fan like a saber, and your father poured himself another glass of claret with a grin that infuriated her further.

"Outrageous," your mother hissed. "Calling so early, and with such nerve. Orchids, promenades... boldness will undo us all."

"Boldness may win her a husband worth having," your father muttered, sipping.

Your sisters gasped in delighted unison. "Worth having indeed!" one chirped. "Did you see the way he looked at her?"

"Like she hung the moon," the other agreed, swooning into the cushions.

Your cheeks burned, though you kept your expression calm, your fan lifting to shield the smile that threatened to betray you. The memory of his eyes—steady, intent—was still a live flame in your chest.

But your brother cut sharply through the chatter, his voice cold and commanding.

"Enough."

The room stilled.

He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back as though he presided over a council of war. "Tomorrow will proceed under my conditions. Do not mistake the promenade for indulgence. It is an examination. A test." His eyes fixed on you, stern. "Captain Price will walk with us, but you will not be alone with him. Not for a moment."

Your mother nodded vigorously. "Quite right. She must not breathe without a chaperone."

Your brother continued, his words clipped. "You will speak of the weather, of the park, of society. Nothing more. No lingering glances, no whispered words, no scandal to give Whistledown more ink than she already has."

Your sisters rolled their eyes in unison, one muttering, "Heaven forbid she should enjoy herself."

Your brother ignored them, gaze still locked on you. "Do I make myself clear?"

You met his stare, your fan lowering slowly. Outwardly, you inclined your head in the smallest nod, perfectly composed.

But inside—oh, inside you screamed.

You burned with the memory of John's voice in the hall, low and rough: You are a vision tonight. You ached with the memory of his eyes across the theatre, his hand guiding you on the dance floor, his smile in your doorway.

Your brother's rules rattled in your ears like chains. But chains could be broken.

And tomorrow, in Hyde Park, you would find a way.

The day slid into dusk with your household still buzzing. Servants whispered in the halls about the soldier who had dared to call so boldly; your sisters replayed every detail of the visit until their laughter filled the corridors. Your mother brooded over tomorrow's promenade, whispering strategy into your brother's ear as though she were planning a campaign.

But when the lamps were lit and the house settled, you finally found yourself alone.

In your chamber, the orchids glowed faintly in the candlelight, their pale petals unfurling as if to taunt you. You set aside your brush after only a few strokes, unable to steady your hands, your reflection flushed and restless in the mirror.

Tomorrow should have filled you with dread — your brother's rules, your mother's sharp eyes, society's whispers circling like hawks. And yet...

You leaned against the window, looking out at the dark street below, your breath fogging faintly on the glass. You thought of him.

Of John's bow in your drawing room, the warmth in his voice when he said your name. Of the way his gaze lingered, unafraid, as though no brother, no mother, no title in London could frighten him away.

Your hand tightened against the sill.

How would it feel, to walk beside him in daylight? To let his hand brush yours, even once?

The thought spread heat through your chest, lower still, leaving you breathless. You pressed your palms to your skirts, scolding yourself — and yet the image bloomed again. John leaning close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered words meant for you alone. John's hand at your waist, steady and sure, guiding you with the same command he carried onto a battlefield.

A sigh slipped from you, soft, sinful.

You drew the curtains and sat on the edge of your bed, the hush of the house pressing in. Orchids on the table, pearls tucked away in their case, and your pulse still racing as though the day had not ended.

Tomorrow, Hyde Park would be full of eyes and whispers. But tonight, in the privacy of your chamber, it was only you and the unshakable truth:

You wanted him.

The dream began in shadows.

You were pressed against a railing, silk cool beneath your palms, the faint night air brushing your skin. His presence loomed close, steady, overwhelming — the heat of his body caging you, the scrape of beard against your neck as his mouth found the curve there.

"Do you know," he murmured, voice low, rough, a growl meant for you alone, "how long I've wanted this?"

Your breath caught. Fingers grazed your waist, sliding over the curve of your skirts, pressing you back against iron and stone. His touch was reverent and hungry at once, steady hands that knew too much of war, now desperate to know you.

"John..." The word slipped out, scandalous in its intimacy.

He groaned, his lips dragging along your jaw, his teeth catching your ear. "Say it again."

"John," you whispered, softer, your body arching into his, heat sparking where fabric barely separated skin.

His hand pressed lower, over silk, tracing lines that made your knees weak. His breath was ragged, his restraint fraying with each kiss, each whispered curse against your throat.

"You'd ruin me," you gasped, half-laughing, half-desperate.

"I'd worship you," he countered, his voice husky, his mouth crushing against yours in a kiss that seared. "Every inch. Every night. Mine."

Your pulse thundered. Your body yielded. His hand slid higher, claiming more, improper, wicked—

And then—

John jolted awake.

The dark of his chamber pressed close, the only light the dying embers in the hearth. His breath came fast, his chest slick with sweat, his sheets tangled about his legs. For a moment, the echo of you lingered on his lips, the ghost of your name heavy in his throat.

He swore under his breath, dragging a hand over his face.

A soldier was no stranger to dreams — nightmares of smoke and fire, of men lost to battle. But this... this was different. This was you. Sweet and improper, soft and sinful, a dream that left his body aching and his heart pounding harder than any drum of war.

John leaned back against the headboard, exhaling through his teeth.

Tomorrow he would see you again.
Tomorrow he would walk beside you in daylight.

And if the dream had left him undone, he feared — and hoped — reality might undo him entirely.