The ballroom seemed to pause. Conversations faltered mid-laugh, crystal glasses in hand, as two figures descended the grand staircase. Every step was precise, measured, their heels clicking lightly against the marble. Even the string quartet seemed to quiet, as if giving the moment its due.
At the front was the host of the night, a middle-aged woman dressed in midnight-emerald silk, her collarbone adorned with polished marble stones that caught every gleam of the chandelier.
But Matthew's gaze wasn't on her.
It was on the young woman behind her; the one who clearly inherited the older woman's beauty, refined and sharpened into something ethereal.
She descended in silence, her presence shifting the attention of the hall as naturally as the moon pulling the tide. Midnight-blue silk traced each step behind her, catching faint gold from the chandeliers.
Her hair; deep chestnut pinned with silver combs rested elegantly against her shoulders. Grey-blue eyes, clear and steady, swept the room with quiet discernment.
A moonstone gleamed at her throat.
Lady Evelyne.
She reached the bottom of the stairs, speaking briefly with a steward. Even her gestures were measured, graceful, deliberate.
Miss Charlotte followed his stare, then exhaled softly.
"Oh!. Lady Evelyne Verin."
Matthew blinked. "That's… her?"
Miss Charlotte nodded. "The very one."
Matthew swallowed. "She looks like..like..."
Words failed him, an event rare enough to make Thomas stare.
"Why are you stammering like that?" Thomas said, brow lifting. "Wait… don't tell me you're dazed because of her. Friendly advice: give up."
Matthew snapped out of his daze. "Huh? Why?"
Thomas's eyebrow lifted. "You're joking. Her expectations are sky-high. Do you know how many suitors lined up for her, rejected all, there's no shortage of good-looking guys with fine backgrounds".
Matthew snorted at his words, then turned to his aunt for encouragement.
Miss Charlotte patted his shoulder with all the sympathy of a woman watching a puppy chase a carriage.
"Oh, Matthew," she said softly. "Good luck."
As she made her way to Miss Verin to pay her greetings, Lady Evelyne and her mother moved through the crowd, offering small nods to guests.
None of this dented Matthew's confidence.
"Well, she hasn't met me," he said, lifting his chin. "I'm not just another handsome man, Thomas. I am the Toast of Turner Gate. Remember that."
"More like a rake of turner gates." Lucas murmured as he followed behind him.
"Good evening, Miss Verin," Miss Charlotte called, squeezing through the cluster of guests.
"Oh, Charlotte! You look lovely," Miss Verin said, pulling her into an embrace.
"And you, as radiant as ever. Thank you for the invitation and congratulations on your husband's new age."
Thomas greeted politely; Matthew greeted flamboyantly, though his eyes flickered behind Miss Verin searching for Evelyne.
After a brief conversation, Miss Verin excused herself to attend to other guests, leaving the trio free to mingle.
Matthew immediately nudged Lucas.
"Come on. Wingman duties. Let's go."
Before Lucas could refuse, the sharp clink of glass rang out.
A deep, warm voice rang across the hall.
"Welcome, dear friends, to this evening of celebration!"
All eyes turned toward the tall man standing at the head of the room; Lord Verin, resplendent in a dark tailcoat, a golden pocket watch gleaming by his waistcoat. His smile was practiced, warm, and authoritative. Beside him, Miss Verin stood with serene pride.
"Thank you all for coming to honor not just me but friendship, family, and an age that grows only more distinguished each year," he said, raising his glass.
Laughter and applause followed.
As Lord Verin's gaze swept the room, Matthew felt it pass over him, steadily, almost weighing him. Evelyne's eyes flicked his way as well, calm and unreadable, before turning elsewhere.
Matthew straightened his shoulders.
Charm. Poise. Confidence. The traits that earned him his title.
Thomas murmured, "Don't say I didn't warn you."
Matthew smirked. "Watch and learn."
Soft chatter resumed. The music, hesitant at first, slowly built again.
Matthew smoothed his hair, exhaled, and locked into his practiced persona: the one he used in bars, alleys, and every foolish adventure that made him "Matthew."
"Into battle," he muttered to himself.
And with Thomas trailing behind, he took his first steps toward Lady Evelyne Verin, as the ballroom swirled with light, laughter, and the fragile beginnings of something foolish.
The night was just beginning.