Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“ A re you fond of rocks?”

The question struck Margaret as rather peculiar for a ball, though she managed a smile that she hoped conveyed politeness, if not genuine interest. “Rocks, my lord?”

“Yes, rocks,” the Viscount affirmed, his expression alight with enthusiasm. “They are the very foundation of our existence, quite literally. The magic of the universe, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret’s fingers tightened slightly on her fan as she fought the urge to sigh. This was decidedly not how she had envisioned her debut season. Nor, for that matter, how she had imagined tonight’s ball would proceed.

“They are fascinating, are they not?” he pressed on, adjusting his monocle to peer into a leather-bound book he had produced from his coat—a book, she noted with mild disbelief, entirely devoted to the study of geology.

Margaret inclined her head, schooling her features into a semblance of attentiveness. “Indeed, my lord. As fascinating as geology surely is?—”

“Oh, nothing could surpass its fascination, I assure you,” he interrupted, his tone as fervent as a clergyman delivering a sermon.

Margaret refrained from rolling her eyes, though her thoughts wandered to a different sort of fascination—the kind that stirred hearts and set pulses racing. She had come to this ball seeking the romance she had so often dreamed of, the grand emotions her novels promised. Instead, she found herself trapped in a lecture on mineral composition.

“Nature is truly remarkable,” she replied, adopting the tone of agreeable civility her aunt had drilled into her.

“Ah, but rocks, Lady Margaret, are not merely nature’s adornments. They are our ancestors, in a manner of speaking—silent witnesses to the aeons that shaped our world.”

Margaret blinked, momentarily taken aback by this startling analogy. “I do believe the complexities of human thought and sentiment set us somewhat apart from rocks, my lord. Would you not agree?”

She allowed herself a light chuckle, but the Viscount’s earnest expression did not shift.

Before she could formulate another polite response, the first strains of the waltz swept through the ballroom. The music, sweet and inviting, offered her the perfect opportunity to escape.

“Is that the waltz beginning?” he asked, glancing toward the orchestra.

“I do believe it is,” Margaret replied, her heart lifting at the prospect of deliverance.

“I think it would be a marvelous thing to share this next?—”

“Oh, quite so! And what better time for me to take a short respite in the ladies’ retiring room,” Margaret interjected with practiced brightness, already gathering her skirts.

The Viscount blinked, visibly startled by her abrupt declaration. “Oh. Well, in that case, Lady Margaret, when you return, I shall delight you with the wonders of the subclass of igneous rocks I recently?—”

“I shall look forward to it,” Margaret replied with a dazzling smile before making her retreat.

She did not slow her steps until she reached the relative quiet of the hallway, where the sounds of the ballroom receded behind her. Her shoulders relaxed as she allowed herself a small sigh. The young Viscount had been polite, if insufferably dull. At least she had spared his feelings, she thought, though her romantic notions of gallant suitors and thrilling encounters had suffered somewhat from the event .

Turning a corner briskly, she came face-to-face with an elderly gentleman whose sudden appearance brought her to an abrupt halt.

“Well, hello there, little one,” he said, his tone wheezing with what might have passed for warmth, had it not been accompanied by a lingering stare that sent a chill down Margaret’s spine.

“I have not seen one as pretty as you all evening. What do they call you, miss?”

Margaret swallowed, a flush of discomfort creeping up her neck. She managed a stiff curtsy, her hands clutching her skirts. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she murmured, stepping aside to avoid his gaze.

Without waiting for a response, she turned sharply and hurried down another hallway, her pulse quickening. The merriment of the ball now seemed a world away, and she pressed on, eager to leave the man’s unsettling presence far behind.

“Not charming. And most definitely not my gallant knight,” Margaret muttered under her breath, gathering her skirts as she slipped out onto the nearest balcony. The garden beyond beckoned, serene and blissfully devoid of dull lectures about rocks.

She descended the steps, the cool night air brushing against her flushed cheeks. A pathway of pale gravel led her to a fountain tucked into a quiet corner of the gardens, its perfect symmetry drawing her closer. The gentle gurgle of water provided a soothing reprieve from the noise of the ballroom.

Margaret circled the fountain, trailing her fingertips along its marbled rim. She paused to admire how the moonlight reflected off the water’s surface in shimmering ripples. If only her aunt had permitted her to bring a book this evening! Since the gentlemen had disappointed her, h ow delightful it would have been to escape into the romance and perfection inked within its pages.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she leaned forward, her fingers grazing the cool stone. She stepped back to take in the fountain’s entirety, but instead of empty space, her back collided with something solid.

A grunt—deep and unmistakably masculine—broke the tranquil silence.

Margaret whirled around, eyes wide in alarm. It was not a wall she had backed into but a man. A tall and imposing gentleman, to be precise.

The moonlight illuminated his features: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and an aura of quiet authority that seemed to radiate from him. He looked like he had stepped straight out of the novels she adored. Her breath caught for a moment, and she could not help but think, A knight indeed.

“I beg your pardon,” she began quickly, her voice filled with genuine surprise.

“You might start by stepping off my toes,” he said gruffly, his voice a low rumble.

Her face burned as she realized her misstep—literally. She hopped back, muttering another apology, but his words had pricked her pride. “It’s Lady Margaret, sir,” she corrected, drawing herself up to her full height.

“Noted,” he replied curtly, brushing down his lapel.

Margaret frowned. “I suppose this is where you offer an apology for lurking about the garden like some phantom, startling unsuspecting ladies.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, though it was hardly a smile. “I wasn’t aware the garden was reserved for damsels in distress. Shall I beg forgiveness for simply existing, Lady Margaret?”

“A damsel in ennui, sir, n ot a damsel in distress,” she shot back, her voice cooling. “But I had thought a gentleman might exhibit better manners when encountered.”

“Ah, so I am lacking in charm as well?” He tilted his head, his dark gaze scrutinizing her with infuriating calm. “Pray, do you find my manners wanting?”

“Wanting would be a generous term,” Margaret retorted, her chin lifting. “I daresay you are no knight of old.”

“And you, Lady Margaret, are no fairy-tale princess ,” he returned smoothly, his tone edged with dry amusement.

Her mouth fell open before she snapped it shut. “How dare you!”

His brow arched, and the faintest trace of a smirk played on his lips. “Is this the part where you faint, or must I endure more spirited reprimands?”

Margaret bristled, her hands tightening around her skirts. “Rest assured, sir, I am perfectly capable of reprimanding you further, though I hardly think you worthy of my time.”

“Then by all means,” he drawled, gesturing for her to proceed. “Do not let me detain you.”

With a huff, Margaret turned to go, only to feel a sharp tug at her scalp. She yelped, spinning back toward him as she realized her hair was caught on the button of his lapel.

“Hold still,” he muttered, his large hands reaching toward the offending button.

“Careful!” she said, wincing as the motion pulled her closer to him.

“You’re the one tangled up in my coat,” he shot back. “This is hardly my fault.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t been skulking about?—”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t turned so abruptly?—”

The sharp retorts were cut short as the tension between them snapped—quite literally. Margaret stumbled forward, colliding with his chest as his hands instinctively caught her shoulders. Before she could regain her footing, momentum carried them both backward.

There was no time to think, no time to protest, only the cold shock of water enveloping them as they tumbled into the fountain with an almighty splash.