Every eligible maiden in London had been positioned with mathematical precision, their mothers calculating angles and opportunities like generals before battle.

And then the doors opened.

She was no longer the girl who had raced him through these very halls, who had stolen his cravat and dared him to catch her. That girl had been all sharp elbows and wild curls and laughter that echoed off the ceiling.

This woman glided.

Her gown was pale gold, simple in a way that spoke of expensive taste rather than modesty. Her hair was swept up in a style that showed the elegant line of her neck. Her gaze swept the room with a calm, assessing grace that made every other debutante look like a child playing dress-up.

Their eyes met across the sea of silk and jewels.

And for one impossible, aching moment, the ballroom dissolved into nothing but the space between them.