Spring air still clung to the curtains in my room, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine from the garden.

I had been sketching the east wing—the way the late afternoon sun caught the ivy—when the sound drifted up.

Horses. Voices. The heavy thud of a coach door closing.

I set down my charcoal, heart hammering against my ribs.

He was here.

My fiancé.

I gave up on perfection and twisted it into a half-up, half-down style, grabbed my skirt, and ran.

Bad idea.

The stairwell runner caught my heel.

I went down hard—ankle twisting beneath me, a sharp bolt of pain shooting up my leg.

I tried to stand. My ankle buckled.

I tried again.

Nothing.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Footsteps echoed from somewhere down the hall—but they didn't sound like my brothers. Too measured. Too deliberate.

A boy stood over me. Dark brown hair, neatly styled. Dark eyes. A well-tailored suit. He looked about sixteen—maybe seventeen—and a head taller than me, even kneeling down as he did.