To Yvette, every noblewoman in attendance was beautiful—not by accident, but by meticulous design. From the moment they awoke, their every action was choreographed to cultivate elegance. They dressed with care, entertained guests at noon, and in the afternoons, rode through town in open carriages, hunting for the latest French fashions. Returning home, they would study their reflections for hours, rehearsing smiles, practicing sorrowful gazes, adjusting angles to avoid unflattering shadows.

  The mirror was their strictest teacher, and their performances were flawless.

  When Yvette had first entered this world, she’d found even the simplest social graces alien. Choosing to dress as a man had been her escape—and now, seeing the effortless poise of true society ladies, she was grateful for that decision.

  Here, nobility played their parts like actors. On the dance floor, couples spun in waltzes, their hands lingering just a breath too long. In shadowed alcoves, whispered flirtations danced beneath polite words, eyes gleaming with unspoken promises.

  Didn’t they realize they were being watched? Of course they did. This was all part of the spectacle—a play where the audience was complicit in the illusion.

  Amidst the theatrics, Yvette was the sole attendee more interested in the food. Though called a ball, dancing was sparse—merely one per hour, with long stretches for mingling. Between songs, servants circulated with trays of sweets and wine. She’d already sampled cakes at ten, punch at eleven, spiced wine at midnight…

  Thankfully, as a “male” guest, she wasn’t expected to seek out partners. Her plain cloak made her an unlikely suitor for the radiant debutantes, much to the dismay of a few noblewomen casting hopeful glances her way. Their flirtations melted against her indifference like snow on stone.

  Meanwhile, seasoned rakes prowled like wolves, their eyes flicking hungrily between targets. They’d ensnare a lady with smoldering looks, feigning devotion until her pride swelled—then suddenly withdraw, compelling her to chase their gaze. When their eyes locked again, she’d blush, caught in the game.

  Yvette stayed oblivious to these maneuvers, too busy enjoying her meal. Eventually, the ballroom's stifling air drove her into the corridor, where she lingered by a painting—until frantic footsteps interrupted.

  "My lord, this is—too forward!" A woman’s plea.

  "Miss Siles, you cannot deny what burns between us!" A man’s fervent reply.

  Peering around a column, Yvette saw a distressed young noblewoman cornered by a baron—his grip on her hand far too intimate, his kisses too fervent.

  "Sir. The lady said no." Yvette stepped forward.

  The man spun, blanching at the sight of her—especially her infamous "Ass-Eared King" moniker. Mumbling apologies about "passion’s folly," he fled.

  Miss Siles trembled as she smoothed her gown. "Thank you," she whispered.

  Yvette offered to escort her somewhere private to recover, but the girl recoiled. "I must return! My stepmother—she means to marry me off to some aging lord for my brother’s advantage. If I don’t find a match now…" Desperation edged her voice. "You’re close to the Duke! Could you—?"

  Yvette hesitated. Asking political favors wasn’t her place—

  A dry voice cut in. Ulysses, clad as Hermes, observed them coolly. "Gretna Green," he said. "Marry there, and no one can void it."

  The infamous elopement village. Under Scottish law, even disinheritance couldn’t undo a Gretna Green union—though it would strip a noble of wealth.

  Miss Siles’s face twisted from despair to disdain. "How common," she spat, then swept away.

  Yvette blinked. The transformation had been instant—a wounded dove one moment, a haughty ice queen the next.

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  Yvette gaped at the retreating noblewoman, only for Ulysses to cut in with an "I told you so" look: "A few minutes later, and you'd have been spellbound."

  "Don't be absurd! I was merely startled. When she spoke of her family troubles, her grief seemed genuine. Not that I could've helped anyway—so this 'spellbound' nonsense—"

  "Yet you'd still pity your inability to aid her," Ulysses countered knowingly.

  "Oh... That's normal, surely? At least I could've offered an ear." Yvette heard the feebleness in her own defense.

  "Her dissatisfaction with the arranged match likely stems from rivalry, not some yearning for freedom. Probably her sworn enemy—a competing sister—secured a grander engagement, provoking her to scheme. Stepmothers rarely fuss over the first wife's offspring—unless said offspring lands a dazzling fiancé through her own efforts. No fool would refuse that windfall."

  "But surely some nobles desire genuine love over political matches?"

  "Trace any blueblood's lineage, and you'll find their fortune was built on loveless unions. Since medieval times, marriages hinged on the bride's dowry and the groom's prospects—never affection. Say a family's trade goods must traverse a rival's toll-road to reach the capital. If that rival includes the road in their daughter's dowry, her suitor must wed her—blind, deaf, or crippled—to lift the toll."

  Miss Siles' gilded ballrooms and exotic fruits exist because ancestors bartered freedom for power. If she seeks liberty, she must renounce everything her name commands—a fair trade."

  Ulysses understated the case. Medieval nobles were highwaymen in silk. Beyond tolls, wrecked carriages and stranded ships became their plunder. Traps on roads, false lighthouses luring merchants to ruin—all standard practice. Some led robber bands themselves. Any lord who prized children's romantic whims over strategic marriages soon found himself too poor to arm knights—and stripped of title and lands.

  Even now, a textile magnate must ally with colonial officers to ensure untaxed cotton and cloth sales abroad.

  Yvette conceded his point. Likely even the Queen must wed "suitably" or abdicate. No wonder adultery carried such muted scorn here—when all marriages are shackles, who begrudges furtive keys?

  The ballroom's mirrored walls and chandeliers turned the corridor into a glittering dreamscape. The Landler's strains wafted from master musicians as Yvette realized noble offspring were caged birds—so long confined, they mistook their prison for the world.

  ...

  Tedium...

  The Duke of Lancaster toyed with his wineglass, ignoring hopeful feminine glances. Skipping two dances drew audible sighs.

  Dance protocol favored men: they chose when and whom to ask, though ladies could refuse—but once refusing, none could accept further offers that eve without scandal.

  The Duke's whims were legend. Neither beauty, birth nor wealth guided his selections—provincial debutantes, scandalous divorcées, bankrupt widows all received his hand. Some saw fortunes reverse from one dance, making his presence a high-stakes lottery where girls endured aching feet lest they miss their "winning turn."

  Perhaps he's fatigued, some speculated, wavering between abandoning hope or lingering—just in case.

  Only the Duke knew: when Miss Siles kept eyeing Yvette, he'd marked her for observation. She'd once flirted with him ingeniously; he was curious what her clever mind plotted next.

  Now she'd switched targets—tracking Yvette while fluttering lashes at a notorious rake. When Yvette excused herself, Miss Siles whispered to her besotted escort and followed.

  The Duke alerted "friend" Ulysses, who vanished mid-dance.

  Clever. Wish I could eavesdrop, mused the Duke—but his departure would draw stares.

  Miss Siles soon returned alone, wearing an inscrutable mask. Her Baron admirer avoided eye contact.

  Failed, then.

  He recognized this look—last seen when he'd foiled one of her schemes. Beneath her usual fragile-lily affect, defeat roused something reptilian: a coiled, calculating stare.

  "Vincent."

  His valet materialized silently. (Not truly named Vincent—but ducal tradition recycled the name for all valets, being too trivial to justify memorizing new ones.)

  "Strike Miss Siles from my list. Make no effort to conceal it."

  "At once, Your Grace."

  Nobles maintained "lists" of acquaintances—those introduced properly without subsequent offense. Removal signaled not just estrangement, but public repudiation. The higher the remover's rank, the deadlier the snub.

  Last season, a lady eloped with a painter. Though Church annulled her unconsummated marriage (her sole legal escape), the Queen struck both from her list—rendering them social phantoms who fled London in disgrace.

  The Duke's rebuke wouldn't exile Miss Siles—but with his rare disfavor known, aspirational hosts would shun her. Vincent's side-hustle (selling harmless ducal tidbits to rival servants) would ensure this news spread like fire.

  Miss Siles, meanwhile, had donned a wounded-dove aura, snaring another nobleman. Noticing the Duke's gaze, she flushed—was that jealousy? She wondered. Men prized hardest-won trophies. Accordingly, she flashed a flustered-deer glance before demurely pivoting.

  Her mother's wisdom echoed: "Study all men—but dissect only the finest specimens. They're your true education."

  The Duke was her chosen subject—one she'd crack to elevate her own allure and station.

  "Enjoy your triumph," the Duke murmured at her back.

  Even detesting someone, he'd never eject them mid-gala. He'd kiss their knuckles at parting, flawless host to the last.

  But by dawn, Miss Siles would find her world inverted. The "indelible impression" she fancied she'd made would pop like soap bubbles—with no clue which misstep triggered her ruin.