The chandeliers of Ashbourne Palace glittered like a thousand fallen stars, their golden light spilling across silk gowns, polished boots, and jewels that winked with every turn of a head. The Summer Ball had begun, and with it, the season of whispered promises and carefully concealed rivalries.
Lady Lavinia Harcourt stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, her gloved hands clasped lightly before her. At twenty years of age, she had blossomed into the very image of elegance, yet hers was a beauty sharpened by ambition. Her dark hair, the shade of raven's wings, was swept into an elaborate chignon threaded with pearls, framing a face of fine, classical features. Her eyes — a stormy gray that seemed too piercing for her tender years — swept across the crowd with restless precision, as though searching for something, or perhaps someone.
All around her, nobility preened and sparkled. Perfume drifted like mist; fans fluttered; the rustle of gowns swept across the marble floor as couples turned to the strains of the orchestra. Footmen in livery moved silently with trays of champagne, while gilded mirrors reflected back the glittering throng.
And, of course, there were the whispers.
"They say Her Majesty is expecting an heir."
"Surely you jest! Only a year wed?"
"King Lucien does not waste time, it seems…"
A laugh, followed by a conspiratorial murmur. "And yet, some say Lady Lavinia attracts far too much of His Majesty's attention."
Heat prickled the back of Lavinia's neck. She did not need to hear her name clearly to know when she was the subject of gossip.
The cause of that shadow stood only a few steps away. Queen Eleanor Harcourt, at five-and-twenty, was radiant in a gown of ivory silk embroidered with golden thread, her every gesture suffused with the serene poise of a woman secure in her place. Her fair hair, swept into a crown of braids and diamonds, caught the light like spun sunlight. Her eyes, a soft summer blue, glowed with warmth as she greeted her subjects, and her smile carried the power to disarm even the most hardened courtier. Beloved, admired, and envied — she was everything Lavinia longed to be.
And then there was King Lucien.
At thirty, he was a man who wore power like a second skin. He stood at the heart of the ballroom, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a uniform of deep navy velvet trimmed with gold braid, a jeweled sash slanting across his chest. His hair, a rich chestnut touched with gold at the temples, framed a face both striking and stern: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes of piercing green that seemed to see straight through a person. His presence drew attention as surely as fire drew moths. When he smiled — as he did now, bending to murmur something to Eleanor — the entire room seemed to lean toward him.
Lavinia's pulse quickened.
He should have been hers.
She had known it from the first moment she saw him, two years before, when he had come to court to select a bride. She remembered the way his gaze had lingered on her — just for an instant — before duty, and the expectations of the realm, had placed the crown upon her sister's head instead. Since that day, envy had coiled inside her, flowering into something far more dangerous than mere jealousy.
"Lavinia," Eleanor's gentle voice broke into her thoughts. The Queen turned, her expression warm. "You are quiet this evening. Do you not wish to dance?"
Lavinia summoned a smile, though it felt brittle upon her lips. "I am content to watch, Your Majesty."
Her Majesty. Her sister. The wife of the man Lavinia desired with every beat of her heart.
"Content to watch?" A smooth, teasing voice interrupted. Turning, Lavinia found herself face to face with Viscount Edmund Blackwood, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. He bowed low. "Surely the belle of the ball deserves more than the company of shadows."
Lavinia's smile deepened, though irritation flickered beneath her composure. Edmund, at six-and-twenty, was handsome in the careless way of a man who knew it — his dark curls artfully unruly, his waistcoat just a shade too daring for tradition. Many ladies whispered of his charm; to Lavinia, he was little more than a distraction. "Perhaps, my lord, I am waiting for a dance partner worthy of my time."
His grin widened. "Then I shall endeavor to prove myself."
Before she could answer, movement caught her eye. Duchess Beatrice Montclair, resplendent in plum-colored satin, drifted past with her usual retinue of gossiping ladies. Her sharp eyes — still bright at one-and-forty — landed on Lavinia, and her lips curved into something between amusement and malice.
"Ah, Lady Lavinia," she drawled loudly enough for half the room to hear, "ever watchful, though never on the floor. One wonders what captures your attention so intently this evening?"
A ripple of laughter followed.
Lavinia's cheeks flamed, but she curtsied gracefully, her voice cool. "Why, Your Grace, the same as yourself. The brilliance of our sovereigns."
Eleanor's hand fluttered to Lavinia's arm in sisterly reassurance, though her brows knitted slightly — perhaps at Beatrice's cruelty, perhaps at Lavinia's tone.
But Lavinia scarcely noticed.
Because at that moment, she felt it — that shift, subtle yet undeniable, that tugged her attention across the room.
King Lucien's gaze swept the crowd, and for the briefest moment, his eyes met hers.
The world seemed to still.
It was only an instant, no longer than the flicker of a candle flame. Yet in that glance, Lavinia thought she saw something that both thrilled and terrified her: awareness.
Perhaps even temptation.
Her breath caught. She lowered her eyes quickly, lest anyone notice the tremor in her hands. Edmund was still speaking — something charming and inconsequential — while Duchess Beatrice whispered with her flock, and Queen Eleanor leaned to confer softly with the King's knight, Sir Thomas Grayson, who lingered near with his ever-watchful gaze.
But Lavinia heard none of it.
Because within her chest, a vow was forming, silent and unyielding.
She would not remain in the shadows forever.
No matter the cost, she would claim the crowned heart.