After a full week of endless planning, rushing servants, and highly demanding instructions from Aunt Margery and Ines, the night of the grand Hamilton Season’s ball finally arrived.

Hamilton House was completely transformed. It looked like a brilliant, glowing palace in the middle of London. Thousands of white beeswax candles burned brightly in the massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the painted ceilings. The warm, golden light poured out of the tall glass windows, illuminating the dark streets of Mayfair.

Hundreds of fresh white roses and green vines were wrapped around the grand marble staircases and the stone pillars. The sweet, fresh smell of the flowers completely filled the warm indoor air.

Outside the massive iron gates, a long line of expensive carriages waited on the cobblestone street. The very best families of the London Ton had arrived.

At the front double doors, tall guards wearing the dark blue and silver uniform of the Hamilton family stood at absolute attention.

The guests stepped out of their carriages and walked up the wide stone steps. They handed their gold-embossed paper invitations to the guards. The guards checked every single invitation very carefully before allowing anyone to step inside. The Duke of Ford had ordered strict security. No uninvited guests were allowed to enter.

Inside the grand foyer, Mr. Simmons, stood at the top of the short stairs leading into the main ballroom.

He stood perfectly straight. He wore his finest black evening coat and crisp white gloves. He held a tall wooden staff in his right hand. Every time a new group of guests approached the open ballroom doors, Mr. Simmons struck the bottom of his staff against the marble floor with a loud, firm thump.

"Lord and Lady Abernathy!" Mr. Simmons announced in a loud, clear, echoing voice.

An older gentleman and his wife smiled and walked into the ballroom.

"Viscount Blackwood and Miss Ophelia Blackwood!" Mr. Simmons called out a moment later.

The atmosphere inside the massive ballroom was entirely electric. It was filled with the beautiful, soft music of a large orchestra playing from a raised balcony. The musicians played violins, cellos, and flutes, creating a highly cheerful and romantic tune. Beneath the music, the room was completely filled with the loud, constant chattering of the wealthy guests.

On the right side of the grand room, near the long tables holding silver trays of food and crystal glasses, the gentlemen of the Ton gathered in large groups. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

The men stood close together, holding delicate crystal glasses filled to the brim with bubbling golden champagne. They wore sharp, dark evening coats and perfectly tied white cravats. They were in high spirits, laughing boisterously at each other’s stories. Their deep voices completely carried over the soft music.

"I am telling you, the debate was absolute madness," Lord Fisher said loudly, taking a large sip of his champagne. He gestured wildly with his free hand.

Some of the men were deeply engaged in talking about the serious matters of politics and the recent votes at the House of Lords.

"The new taxes on imported grain will completely ruin the local farmers," an older Earl argued, shaking his head and adjusting his spectacles. "I stood up in the House of Lords yesterday and told them exactly that. The economics of this country are completely unbalanced. We cannot rely entirely on foreign ships."

"You are absolutely right, my lord," a younger Baron nodded in agreement, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "The trade routes are simply too dangerous right now. The economics must change."

But not all the men were talking about serious laws and money. Some were simply talking about bets won and lost at their exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.

"Forget the grain taxes," a young Viscount laughed loudly, slapping his friend firmly on the back. "Did you hear about the massive bet at White’s Club last night? Lord Petersham bet fifty pounds that he could ride his horse backward around Hyde Park!"

"Did he do it?" another gentleman asked, his eyes wide with amusement.

"He fell off into a massive puddle of mud!" the Viscount roared with laughter, almost spilling his champagne. "I won twenty pounds betting against him. It was the funniest thing I have ever seen in my entire life!"

The men laughed loudly again, clinking their crystal glasses together in a cheerful toast.

On the exact opposite side of the grand ballroom, the women of high society gathered in their own tight, colorful circles.

The ladies looked absolutely beautiful. They wore evening gowns made of the finest silks, satins, and velvets in every color of the rainbow. Bright pinks, deep blues, soft yellows, and rich emerald greens filled the room. They wore sparkling diamond necklaces, pearl earrings, and tall feathers in their carefully curled hair.

The women gathered closely, fluttering their fans rapidly in front of their faces to cool themselves in the warm room. They were talking excitedly about the latest materials, the newest dress styles, and, most importantly, the latest, most scandalous gossips.

"Did you see the dress Lady Grayson is wearing?" a young lady whispered from behind her painted fan, her eyes darting across the room. "It is the exact same style of silk that the French Queen wore last season."

"The modiste on Bond Street must be entirely out of new ideas," her friend replied, raising a delicate, perfectly shaped eyebrow. She snapped her fan shut with a sharp click.

Another group of older women were busy talking about exactly who offended who at the very last social tea party.

"I saw it with my own two eyes," Lady Beatrice whispered loudly to her group of friends, leaning in very close. "Miss Clara deliberately spilled her hot tea directly onto Lady Mary’s new yellow skirt. It was absolutely no accident, I promise you."

"Scandalous!" another woman gasped, covering her mouth with her gloved hand in pure shock. "Why would she do such a terrible thing?"

"Because," Lady Beatrice explained, her eyes wide with secret knowledge, "Lady Mary danced twice with the young gentleman that Miss Clara wanted to marry. It was pure, absolute revenge over a tea cup!"

The ladies all gasped again, fluttering their fans even faster as they digested the delicious, dramatic gossip.

In the very center of the busy, colorful ballroom, Rowan served as a perfect, highly gracious host.

He looked devastatingly handsome. He wore a masterfully tailored black evening coat that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly. His white waistcoat was crisp and bright, and his blond hair was neatly combed back. He walked slowly through the large crowds, making sure to welcome his guests properly.

Rowan smiled warmly. He nodded his head politely to the passing ladies. He stopped to shake hands firmly with the older lords. He asked about their families, their health, and their estates. He performed his strict social duties exactly as a Duke should.

However, despite his polite smiles and his engaging conversations, Rowan’s eyes constantly darted toward the grand entrance of the ballroom. He was simply waiting. He was waiting for the only person in the entire world who truly mattered to him.

Suddenly, Mr. Simmons struck his wooden staff against the floor.

"Lady Julia Moore!" Mr. Simmons announced loudly.

A young, highly beautiful noble lady walked through the double doors and entered the ballroom. Lady Julia Moore wore a stunning, expensive dress made of deep crimson red silk. The dark red color completely complimented her skin and her dark brown hair. She wore a sparkling ruby necklace around her neck.

She walked down the short stairs with complete confidence. She held her head high, completely aware that many men in the room were stopping to stare at her beauty.

But Lady Moore did not care about the other men. Her eyes immediately scanned the large room until she found the most handsome, most powerful man present in the room. She completely locked her eyes onto the Duke of Ford.

Lady Moore walked purposefully across the crowded dance floor. She weaved smoothly through the talking guests until she approached him directly.

Rowan saw her coming. He turned his body politely to face her, placing his hands formally behind his back.

"Your Grace," Lady Moore spoke. Her voice was smooth, sweet, and highly calculated.

She stopped exactly three feet in front of him. She took the edges of her deep crimson silk skirts in her gloved hands. She lowered her body into a very deep, incredibly graceful curtsy. She kept her head bowed for a long, respectful second before slowly rising back up.

Rowan offered her a perfect, highly polite gentleman’s bow. He bent at the waist, dipping his head respectfully.

"My lady," Rowan greeted her smoothly, his deep voice carrying a polite, formal tone.

Lady Moore smiled. It was a bright charming smile designed specifically to win a man’s absolute attention. She knew exactly how to play the difficult games of the London marriage mart.

"I am Lady Moore," she introduced herself clearly, making sure he knew exactly who she was. "Daughter of Earl Wilfred Moore."