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“I left before I did something I couldn't take back.”

“You mean something MORE you couldn't take back?” Her eyes blazed. “Because that kiss seemed pretty irreversible to me.”

She was right. And she was furious. And somehow that made her even more dangerous.

“Lily—”

“No.” She held up a hand. “You don't get to do this. You don't get to kiss me, call me 'everything you shouldn't want,' avoid me for three days, and then show up here acting like we're—like this is—” She gestured between us, frustrated.

“Like what?”

“I don't know!” The words escaped before she could stop them. “That's the problem, August. I don't know what this is. What you want. What any of this means.”

The vulnerability in that admission cut deeper than any accusation could have. I stepped closer. She didn't back away.

“I want you to come to this dinner,” I said quietly. “I want you on my arm when we walk in. I want my father to see⁠—”

“See what?” she cut in. “That you've tamed the suspicious historian? That you've got it all under control?”

“That you're mine.” The words slipped out before I could stop them—raw. Honest. Dangerous.

Her breath caught.

“I mean, just for tonight,” I added quickly, trying to recover. “You're my partner for the evening. And I would look a fool if I'd shown up to the Pembertons' unaccompanied.”

“Your partner. Is that what I am?”

“It’s just a role.”

“And tomorrow?”

I had no answer for that. She watched me, waiting, and when I didn't respond, something in her expression shifted. Hardened.

“Right.” She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Well then. Shall we go perform for your father?”

The bitterness in her tone made my chest tighten. But she was already reaching for her cloak, already moving toward the door, already putting that careful distance back between us. I'd hurt her. Again. And this time, I couldn't even pretend I didn't know why.

The ballroom glittered like a cage made of light. Crystal sconces refracted flame into gold shards that danced across marble floors. Perfume and politics hung thick in the air. Lily’s gaze sweeping across the room with the awe of someone seeing history alive.

“It's beautiful,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“You sound surprised.”

“I've read about events like this. Studied them. But seeing it. . .” Her fingers tightened on my arm. “It's different when you're in it.”

I guided her deeper into the crowd, noting the way heads turned as we passed. Curious glances. Speculative whispers. The arrival of August Hawthorne with an unfamiliar woman would fuel gossip for weeks.

“They're staring,” she said quietly.

“Let them.”

“Easy for you to say. You're used to this.” She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “I'm just trying not to say something that gets me labeled as dangerously educated or suspiciously well-informed.”

The casual way she said it—dry, almost amused—made me want to laugh. Or kiss her. Or both.

“Then perhaps focus less on looking fascinated by the chandeliers and more on looking bored by the conversation.”

Her eyes cut to mine, sharp. “I am fascinated by the chandeliers. Do you know how rare it is to see original gaslight fixtures from this period in working condition?”