Victoire
The moment I stepped into the Hôtel de Montesson, I felt the weight of expectation settle on my shoulders.
Candlelight shimmered against gilded mirrors, the perfume of roses and honeyed pastries cloying in the warm air. Women in jewel-toned gowns fluttered their fans, their mothers whispering behind gloved hands, while men surveyed the room like hunters searching for the most advantageous prey.
I was one of them.
Not by choice, but by necessity.
"Stand straighter," my mother hissed at my side, her fingers barely brushing my arm—a warning rather than a gesture of comfort. "You are being watched."
Of course I was. I had known it the moment I stepped inside, but I refused to fidget beneath the scrutiny. I was the daughter of the late Duke de Montreuil, after all, and even if our fortune had dwindled, our name still commanded respect.
"By whom?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
She did not answer immediately, only giving the barest nod in the direction of a tall figure across the room. I followed her gaze, my breath catching despite myself.
The Marquis de Rochefort.
I had never spoken to him before, but I knew him by reputation. Everyone did. A former soldier who had supposedly fought for Napoleon before conveniently shifting allegiances to the restored monarchy. A rogue who indulged in scandal after scandal and yet never suffered for it. A man who played by no one's rules but his own.
And now, he was watching me.
His gaze was unwavering, sharp, and laced with something I couldn't quite name. Amusement? Curiosity?
I turned back to my mother. "Perhaps he is simply staring into the distance."
My mother's lips thinned. "Do not be foolish, Victoire. If the Marquis de Rochefort wishes to speak with you, you will let him."
I clenched my jaw, swallowing the retort that rose to my lips. It would do no good to argue, not when we both knew what was at stake. My four younger siblings were still children, unaware of how precarious our situation had become. They did not need to worry about the debt collectors knocking at our door, or the fact that our estate was slowly being bled dry.
No, that burden was mine to carry.
So when the marquis began making his way toward me, I did not move. I did not look away.
If he thought I would be just another debutante, simpering and eager for his attention, he was about to be sorely disappointed.
Étienne
I had intended to leave this dreadful ball after half an hour.
Truly.
These gatherings were always the same—men discussing politics they barely understood, women pretending not to be desperate for a title. I had better things to do. My six younger siblings caused enough chaos to keep me entertained without the need for mindless conversation.
And yet, I had stayed.
Because of her.
Victoire de Montreuil.
I had noticed her the moment she arrived. Not because she was the most beautiful woman in the room—though she certainly could have been—but because she carried herself differently than the others. While the rest of the women fluttered about like butterflies desperate to be caught, she stood still. Observing. Calculating.
She knew exactly where she was, exactly what was expected of her, and she hated it.
That intrigued me.
So I crossed the room, ignoring the whispered gossip that followed in my wake. By the time I reached her, she had already schooled her expression into one of polite indifference.
"Ah, Mademoiselle de Montreuil," I said, inclining my head just slightly. "I was beginning to think this evening would bore me to death. But now, I find myself… entertained."
Her lips parted slightly—just for a moment—before she recovered. "You sound easily entertained, Marquis. I had thought a man of your reputation would require more stimulation."
I laughed. Sharp. Good.
"You wound me already, and we have not even danced," I said.
She arched a brow. "Danced? I had not realized that was your intention."
"Would you believe me if I said I only wanted conversation?"
"No."
I chuckled. I had expected her to be clever, but this—this was something more. She was not just intelligent. She was dangerous.
Dangerous in the way a person becomes when they have nothing left to lose.
And that made her the most interesting woman in the room.
"So tell me, Mademoiselle," I said, lowering my voice slightly. "Are you here tonight for duty or desire?"
She hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.
"Duty," she said finally.
Honest. Unexpected.
"And you, Marquis?" she asked, her tone smooth but probing. "Do you dance for pleasure or for strategy?"
I should have given her some meaningless answer, some charming quip. But I didn't.
"Both," I said instead.
That seemed to surprise her. Her lips parted slightly, and though she quickly schooled her features, I did not miss the way she searched my face, as if she could decide in that moment whether I was friend or foe.
The music swelled. I extended my hand. "Shall we?"
She exhaled softly. Then, without another word, she placed her hand in mine.
Victoire
The moment his hand closed around mine, a strange sense of inevitability washed over me.
He led me onto the floor with practiced ease, his grip firm but not possessive. The world around us blurred, the laughter and gossip fading into the background.
I should not have accepted his invitation.
I should not have let my mother's words push me into this game.
But as the first steps of the waltz carried us into a seamless rhythm, I knew it was too late.
"You are quite the mystery, Mademoiselle de Montreuil," the marquis murmured, his voice laced with amusement.
"I am no more a mystery than any other woman here," I replied smoothly.
He tilted his head. "No, that is not true. The others pretend to be an open book while secretly writing in invisible ink. You, however, hold your pages close, as if daring someone to pry them open."
I forced myself to keep my expression neutral. "And are you attempting to pry, Marquis?"
He grinned. "With great pleasure."
The song was nearing its end. Soon, the dance would be over, and I could retreat to the safety of my mother's side. But as the final notes hung in the air, Étienne de Rochefort did something no man had ever done before.
He leaned in, just slightly, just enough to let his breath ghost against my cheek.
"You intrigue me, Mademoiselle," he murmured. "I do hope this is not our last dance."
I swallowed hard. "That depends, Marquis. Are you willing to try harder?"
A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
"Always."
The dance ended.
But somehow, I knew—this was only the beginning.