"Of course."
Her voice was calm, composed, leaving no room for interpretation.
She placed her hand lightly in Matthew's.
Isabel blinked, startled into silence.
Thomas, resigned to his fate, allowed her to take his offered arm, though the frown he wore suggested he already regretted it.
Matthew led Evelyne toward the center of the ballroom, where the waltz waited in a tide of soft violins.
He placed one hand respectfully at her waist, precisely where propriety allowed and took her other hand in his.
Their steps began to move in time with the music.
Matthew guided, Evelyne followed with effortless grace.
"Forgive the intrusion, Miss Verin," he murmured as they turned. "But you appeared in need of rescue."
Evelyne leaned slightly closer, just enough for only him to hear.
"Then I thank you," she whispered, "for sparing me another minute of Isabel's family lectures."
He smiled.
"I only did what any gentleman ought, when a lady is clearly besieged."
She gave him a faint, amused look.
"You speak as though you have rescued many."
"Only those who require it," he said lightly. "And only when I am fortunate enough to be nearby."
Her laugh was soft but genuine.
As they rotated beneath the chandeliers, her eyes lifted to his.
"Matthew Wellington."
She didn't ask, she stated it.
Matthew blinked in surprise.
"It is an honour for a lady such as yourself to know my name. Have we been acquainted before? I'm certain I would not forget a face like yours."
Her lips quirked, barely a smile, but unmistakably amused.
"It seems the rumours are true," she said. "Your words do have a way of... guiding women."
He felt his shoulders tense for the slightest moment, enough for her to notice.
"And besides," she added, "you are the talk of half the mistresses of Turner Gate. Especially those eyes."
She glanced up at them briefly.
"They seem to have a pulling effect."
Matthew smiled, though the ease in it felt practiced rather than natural.
Just over Evelyne's shoulder, Matthew caught sight of Lucas, pleading look while Isabel spoke animatedly beside him. He wore the expression of a man accepting his fate.
The instant Isabel turned her head, Lucas mouthed a single desperate word in Matthew's direction:
Help me.
Matthew nearly huffed a laugh but held his composure.
"Well… those days are behind me," he said quietly.
Evelyne gave him a doubtful gaze.
He continued, ignoring the stares, "And if you have heard so much about me, then—"
"Then I should be careful?" Evelyne finished for him, her tone gentle, edged with amusement.
Matthew blinked. "Careful? I...well, perhaps if you've heard the wrong rumors—"
"There are no wrong or right rumors," she said lightly, turning in his arms as the dance carried them into a slower spin. "Only the ones you inspire."
Matthew's step faltered, enough that his shoe brushed hers.
He stiffened, mortified.
"Forgive me…"
Evelyne's smile didn't falter.
"Relax, Mr. Wellington. It was hardly a misstep."
But her eyes told him she noticed everything.
He tried to recover.
"What about you, Lady Evelyne? You must have suitors lining up from here to the West Court."
"You assume I welcome all suitors," she replied. "Or any."
He opened his mouth, but she tilted her head slightly, studying him with quiet precision.
"And you assume I could be charmed by the same lines you've used on half of Turner Gate."
Matthew swallowed.
Before he could gather his thoughts into something coherent, she continued:
"You dance well. Better than I expected."
"I…thank you."
"But you lead like someone trying to impress," she added softly.
"Not like someone simply dancing."
Another hit.
He didn't even know whether it was an insult or wisdom.
Matthew laughed nervously, before he could recover, the moment shattered as a valet approached Lady Evelyne with a quiet bow.
The valet paused at her side, close enough that only she could hear.
"Pardon me, my lady. Your father requests your presence near the gallery."
Evelyne nodded with practiced grace.
"Of course."
She turned back to Matthew, bowing slightly.
"Our dance was pleasant."
Before he could interpret that, she stepped away, leaving him standing in the middle of the ballroom with the music swelling behind him, unsure whether he had succeeded…
or stepped into the most elegant trap of his life.
"Just pleasant?" he echoed before he could stop himself.
Isabel dragged Thomas past him, still chattering.
Thomas hissed, "Matthew. Don't ever leave me with her again."
Matthew barely heard him.
He was too focused on Evelyne's retreating figure, on the look she gave him—
one that was neither rejection nor invitation.
Something fascinating.
For the first time in a long while, Matthew Wellington had no idea what he was doing.
The night was already winning.
And the ballroom, with all its glittering laughter, carried the first crack in his polished armor.
He exhaled.
"So this," he murmured to himself, "is what trouble feels like."
The first misstep had been made. And it was only the beginning.