The garden air hung heavy with the scent of jasmine and suppressed tension as you fled through the shadows of the hedge maze, your heart pounding against your ribs. Behind you, the sounds of the Countess's ball faded—laughter, music, the clink of crystal—all the false pleasantries you could no longer stomach.

That letter. How could they do this? Your father's good name reduced to a bargaining chip in some sordid political game, your future handed to a man who repulsed you, all without a single consideration for your feelings.

You'd barely registered the movement before strong hands grasped you roughly, slamming your back against the cold marble of a garden statue. The breath whooshed from your lungs as you found yourself staring into the smoldering eyes of Viscount Eliot, his face inches from yours.

"Running from your fate, little one?" His voice was a low growl against your throat, sending shivers down your spine despite yourself. One hand pinned your wrists above your head, the other gripping your jaw so tightly it hurt.

"Or running from me?" His knee forced its way between your skirts, pressing against you in a way that should have horrified you—but instead sent a dangerous warmth pooling between your legs.

"Let me go, my lord!" you gasped, though your struggles were weak, half-hearted.

"Tell me what you discovered," he commanded, his fingers tightening on your jaw until you winced. "Tell me why you're looking at Bramble like you'd rather be dead than become his bride."

His face descended closer, his breath hot against your skin. "And don't bother lying to me, sweetness. I'll know."