The Royal Palace ballroom was an assault on the senses.
A thousand candles flickered in chandeliers that looked like crystalline waterfalls. The orchestra was playing something that sounded vaguely triumphant. And the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, beeswax, and desperation.
Ugh, it's like the Met Gala, but with more corsets and less indoor plumbing, Evelyn thought, her fan fluttering nervously in her hand. The dress Evangeline was supposed to wear was a nightmare of emerald silk and constricting boning. Evelyn's ribs were currently being held hostage.
Her mission was simple. A three-step survival guide she'd concocted in the carriage ride over:
Avoid Duke Julian Blackwood.
Avoid Isabella, the saintly heroine.
Locate, secure, and consume as many desserts as humanly possible before making a graceful exit.
Her eyes, sharp and focused, scanned the glittering crowd. She ignored the preening peacocks of the nobility and the whispering debutantes. Her gaze swept past the dance floor, past the dais where the royals were seated, and zeroed in on the prize.
Along the far wall, a table stretched for what seemed like a glorious eternity, laden with confections. There were towers of macarons, glistening fruit tarts, mountains of cream-filled pastries, and at the very center, a multi-tiered strawberry shortcake that was a thing of beauty.
Objective acquired.
Evelyn began her infiltration, using her voluminous skirts like a battering ram to gently but firmly carve a path through the throng. She offered vague, tight-lipped smiles to anyone who tried to engage her, her mind a mantra of cake, cake, cake, cake.
She reached the table just as a portly marquess was snagging the second-to-last slice of the strawberry shortcake. A sliver of panic shot through her. There was only one piece left.
Her hand shot out, silver tongs at the ready.
So did someone else's.
Evelyn's tongs were a hair's breadth from the prize when she noticed a more delicate, porcelain-skinned hand reaching for the same slice. She followed the hand up a slender arm to a face of pure, unadulterated sweetness.
The girl had hair the color of spun gold, eyes like a summer sky, and a gentle smile that could probably pacify a rampaging griffin.
It was Isabella. The heroine. The female lead. The girl Evangeline was supposed to torment into a puddle of tears.
Code Red! Heroine spotted! Abort! Abort!
Isabella's blue eyes widened slightly in surprise as she noticed the competition. She immediately pulled her hand back, offering a demure little bow. "My apologies, Lady Evangeline. Please, you have it."
The original Evangeline would have snatched the cake with a sneer. But Evelyn was a modern woman with a foodie's code of honor. This was a tragedy, not a victory.
Evelyn decisively secured the slice of cake onto her plate. She looked at the angelic girl before her and gave a short, clipped nod. "Ah, the last one. My condolences."
Then, without another word, she turned and fled, clutching her prize like it was the One Ring. She didn't want to get involved. Small talk could lead to big plot points.
Isabella watched her go, a small, amused giggle escaping her lips. Everyone had told her that Lady Evangeline was cruel and imperious. But the look of life-or-death concentration on her face as she'd claimed that cake... it wasn't cruel. It was just… surprisingly intense.
Evelyn found a blessedly empty alcove hidden behind a potted palm. Freedom. She took a moment to savor the sight of her hard-won dessert before taking a delicate bite. The cake was heavenly. Light, fluffy sponge, fresh cream, and sweet, ripe strawberries. It almost made the corset worth it.
Almost.
"Hiding in the shadows, Evangeline? I thought you preferred to be the center of attention."
The voice was low, cold, and smooth as polished obsidian. It sent a shiver down Evelyn's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
She froze, fork halfway to her mouth. She didn't have to turn around to know who it was. The final boss had found her.
Slowly, she turned.
Duke Julian Blackwood was exactly as the novel described him: unfairly handsome. He was tall, dressed in a severe, perfectly tailored black coat that made everyone else look like they were playing dress-up. His hair was as black as a starless night, and his eyes were a startling shade of silver-grey, currently regarding her with an expression of profound boredom.
This was the man who was supposed to publicly humiliate her and ruin her life.
He glanced at her plate. "I trust the cake is more compelling than your fiancé?"
Evelyn's fight-or-flight instincts screamed FLIGHT. But she was cornered. So, she opted for a third, more chaotic option: CONFUSE. Her modern, sarcastic brain went into overdrive, searching for a way to make this impossibly perfect man want absolutely nothing to do with her.
She put her fork down with a deliberate clink. "Your Grace," she began, her tone serious, "have you ever considered your resemblance to a particular vegetable?"
One of the Duke's perfect black eyebrows rose a fraction of a millimeter. It was the most emotion she'd seen from him yet. "A vegetable?"
"Yes. Broccoli, specifically."
The silence in the alcove was absolute. Even the distant orchestra seemed to hold its breath. The Duke's silver eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with a deep, analytical confusion.
Evelyn pressed her advantage. "You see," she continued, gesturing with her fork, "you are, objectively, a good choice. You are healthy for the family name, packed with political nutrients, and a respectable addition to any table. Everyone agrees that marrying you is the 'sensible' thing to do."
She took a step closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "But let's be honest, Your Grace. No one gets genuinely excited about broccoli. It is bland. It is endured, not enjoyed. It is the thing you are forced to eat to get to the dessert."
She pointed her fork meaningfully at her strawberry shortcake. "And I, Your Grace, would much rather have dessert."
Having delivered her monologue, she took a triumphant bite of her cake, maintaining eye contact. She waited for the explosion. For the cold dismissal. For him to storm off and call the engagement off immediately.
Instead, Duke Julian Blackwood did something far more terrifying.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. The bored indifference in his eyes was gone, replaced by a flicker of something she couldn't name. It was a sharp, assessing curiosity, the way a scientist might look at a bizarre new specimen.
He wasn't repulsed. He was… intrigued.
Mission failed, Evelyn's brain screamed. We'll get 'em next time.