The green handbag sat untouched on Elowen's bedside table. Its silver embroidery shimmered faintly in the moonlight that poured through her curtains.
Inside, tucked beneath the delicate folds of tissue and satin, she had found more than just a gift.
A card contained in a beautiful yet expensive pair of green shoes matching the silver embroidery on the bag.
Neat handwriting, elegant strokes, and a message short enough to stir the air in her chest.
> 10 a.m., breakfast, Rosebury's Finer Inn, day after tomorrow.
No signature. But the handwriting was unmistakably Ewan Blair's. She has seen his writing years ago when he'd often drop letters for her brother. She had always been the curious type so she would sneak to get the letters but was always caught anyways.
***
She lay on her side, buried under her blanket, tossing and turning not because of the gift—nor even the invitation—but because of something far more troubling.
Someone.
She sighed, flipping to her back and staring at the ceiling as if it held answers.
Lord Julian Ravenshade had smiled today. He really smiled. A real smile.
Not the wicked smirk he often wore. Not the teasing curve of his lips that preceded threats of entitlement and sinful phrases. But an actual smile—faint, but there.
Why?
Why now?
She turned again, tugging her blanket higher.
He had also said something else—utter madness.
"Entitle me again and I'll have you crying that underneath me…"
His closeness was enough to make her mad and heavens! She did!
He was bare, chested and... Knowing fully well that he was crafted like a god himself, he still stood so close.
Oh heavens! What manner of seduction.
She clutched the blanket tighter.
What does it even mean to be laid underneath someone? Her mind spiraled.
Her cheeks burned in the dark.
Dirty thoughts. Stop it, Elowen.
She groaned.
She'd grown up reading stories of pirates and poets, of women swept off their feet by charming rogues or shy dukes. But none of them looked like Julian. None of them stared like him. None of them—
Footsteps.
Soft, measured. She knew them.
Marianne.
Elowen quickly closed her eyes and slowed her breath.
The door creaked open.
Marianne padded in, her scent of lavender and flour wrapping around the room like home. She leaned in and gently kissed Elowen's forehead.
A mother's silent way of saying, You're safe.
And just as quietly, she left.
Elowen smiled to herself beneath the blanket.
Peace.
Finally.
---
But peace wasn't universal.
At Ravenshade Manor, that same hour, Julian sat in the grand study, a thick tome resting in his lap, unread.
He hadn't turned a page in nearly an hour.
The words blurred together, meaningless.
Elowen's green eyes flickered across his thoughts like candlelight on dark marble.
Her expressions. Her innocence. Her fire. Her foolishness.
He wanted to taunt her endlessly. Pull her into conversations just to hear her stutter. Provoke her just to see her flush.
Earlier today, when she'd stared at him too long, he'd purposefully undone another button—just to watch the color bloom on her cheeks.
She hadn't disappointed.
But more than her reactions, something gnawed at him.
He had nearly kissed her.
The thought had risen, uninvited, as she stood in the library—eyes wide, hands clutching a book, lips parted just slightly.
Innocent. Curious. Entirely unaware of her effect.
Julian sighed, finally closing the book.
"I should take a stroll," he muttered to himself. "Seems the age has caught up with me."
He laughed at himself. A pureblood Lord feared by all the lands distracted by a girl - but she wasn't just a girl, a flame she was.
He tossed the book aside and wandered the dim corridors of his home. The manor creaked with rain and shadows, and only the soft glow of wall sconces lit his path.
He moved like a ghost, silent, smooth—barefoot and bare-chested still, with only black trousers hugging his frame.
Eventually, he reached the cellar.
Mrs. Jan was there, rearranging crystal decanters on a silver tray.
"My Lord," she acknowledged, offering a respectful nod.
"Pour me something aged and quiet," Julian murmured.
She complied, sliding a tall glass toward him.
He took a long sip.
Warm bloodwine touched his tongue, full-bodied and dark, aged in ashwood barrels. Calming, steadying.
Or it would have been.
If he'd been alone.
"Ah, the old Daredevil," came the all-too-familiar voice from the archway.
Seraphine.
She strolled in, gloved hands behind her back, wearing a midnight velvet robe that screamed drama.
"Seducing the poor human now, are we?" she teased.
Julian didn't answer.
He sipped.
Seraphine twirled once, dramatic as always, and sighed. "You know, if you need a push in your love life, I'd be delighted to help. I do have experience in scandal."
Julian snorted softly, but still said nothing.
"Or perhaps I should throw you both into a closet and let fate take its course."
He finally laughed—low, short, rare.
She turned to go, but paused as he called, "Seraphine."
She looked back, arching one dark brow. "Yes, brother dearest?"
He looked at her, expression unreadable.
"Be careful with your affairs."
"Oh?" she asked, playfully coy.
"The more discreet you try to be," he said quietly, "the more people itch to investigate."
Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "Noted, sweetest."
And with that, she blew a kiss and glided out.
Julian stared at his half-empty glass.
Finally. Some peace.
---
Back in Greystone Dock, Elowen finally sat upright in bed.
Sleep wasn't coming.
She walked to her writing desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the card again.
10 a.m., breakfast, Rosebury's Finer Inn, day after tomorrow.
Ewan Blair was kind. Honest. Attentive.
He had never once teased her to the point of embarrassment. Never smirked at her mistakes or called her "wildflower" like it was both a nickname and a sentence.
So why couldn't she stop thinking about—
She shook her head.
No. Enough.
Still, as she curled back beneath her sheets, she pulled Julian's coat just slightly closer around her shoulders.