You pressed yourself closer to the wall, away from the press of bodies. Your mother had insisted you attend, though she knew you loathed these affairs. The whispers. The scrutiny. The way eligible young men looked at you like a horse at auction.

A flash of deep blue silk caught your eye. A young woman with dark hair piled high, an ivory fan clutched in her gloved hand. She was not dancing, either. She stood near the potted palms, her expression unreadable, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere past your shoulder.

Your cousin John Kilmartin appeared at her side. He leaned to murmur something, and she laughed—a practiced, tinkling sound that did not reach her eyes. Then John took her hand and led her onto the floor.

As they passed, her gaze snagged on yours. Just for a breath. Her eyes were the colour of a winter sea.