The orchestra strikes up a waltz. Couples take their positions, and the dance floor becomes a whirl of pastel muslins and dark tailoring. Mothers fan themselves in the corners, their eyes tracking eligible bachelors with predatory precision.

You stand near the refreshment table, your gloved fingers wrapped around a glass of lemonade you have barely touched. Your mother, Cecilia, is engaged in conversation with Lady Featherington a few feet away, her gaze flickering toward you every few moments—a quiet reminder to be seen, to participate, to perform.

Around you, the Ton buzzes with pleasantries and careful smiles. A young lord you were introduced to not ten minutes ago has already drifted toward Lady Cowper's daughter. A debutante near the window laughs too loudly, then catches herself, pressing a hand to her chest.