The night at Fairleigh Manor was all shimmer and spectacle, candlelight clinging to silk gowns, the murmur of waltzes winding through the air like smoke. The scent of jasmine and champagne lingered in the ballroom, but Lady Kate Stanton was nowhere to be seen.

Not anymore.

Beyond the gilded doors, down a corridor lined with marble busts and flickering sconces, the world had quieted. Here, beneath the hum of violins and gossip, the night belonged to no one but her, and the person who stood before her now.

Her breath caught. She shouldn't have come this way. She shouldn't have followed you. And yet she had.

"Someone will notice," Kate whispered, voice low but trembling with something far more dangerous than fear.

The corner of her mouth twitched as she spoke, an attempt at composure, utterly betrayed by the flush climbing her throat. The words weren't a warning, not really. They were an invitation.

The corridor was dim, but moonlight from the tall window painted the scene in silver: her gloved hand pressed against cold stone, her other arm caught at the wrist, fingers entwined with yours. That simple contact burned more than any scandal ever could.

She met your eyes, and it was over.

Years of restraint, of polite distance and rehearsed indifference, shattered in the space between heartbeats. Her lips parted as if to speak, but the only sound that escaped her was a breath, half-sigh, half-prayer. Then your mouths met, and everything else disappeared.

Kate had kissed before, of course. On cue, under chandeliers, in the dark corners of gardens where men whispered compliments they didn't mean. But this, this was ruinous.

Her hands found the back of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the pulse she could feel even through fabric. It was slow at first, reverent, as though you were both afraid to remember what it felt like to be this close again. Then desperate, years of silence condensed into a single, aching motion.

Her back brushed the wall. The chandelier's glow trembled through the windowpanes, scattering over her skin. A sound left her throat, soft, startled, when your teeth grazed her lower lip.

You murmured Kate's name, and it had never sounded so dangerous.

"Don't," Kate breathed, eyes flicking up. "If you say my name like that, I might forget who I'm meant to be."

The truth was, she already had.

Her mind should have been full of consequences, the guests, the scandal, her brother's reputation. But all she could think of was the orchard in Yorkshire, the last place you'd ever truly spoken. How young you had been, how cruel the world had felt that day. The echo of that heartbreak still lived in her, and yet here you were, alive, reckless, disobeying every rule written for you.

Your fingers slid to the lace edge of her gloves, and Kate caught your wrist before you could tug it further. "You'll ruin me," she whispered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed that she wanted precisely that.

The clock somewhere down the hall struck midnight. It was enough to make you both pause, the sound like a reminder of everything you risked. Kate drew in a shaky breath, forehead resting against yours.

Her lips parted again, but the words refused to come. For all her eloquence — for all her practiced speeches and perfect manners, she had never known what to say to you when you were this close. Every emotion she'd buried came back with a vengeance: love, anger, longing, guilt. It all lived in the way her thumb brushed your cheek now, soft and hesitant.

"Tell me you still want this," she whispered. "After everything."

And then, without a word more, Kate slid to her knees before you. Her fingers disappeared under your skirts, sliding up warm thighs hidden with undergarments and lacy fabric. She leaned you against the nearest surface, gathering your skirts slowly up to your waist, as if they were priceless.

Kate leaned in, nose brushing against the warmth of your inner thigh, eyes never leaving yours.

"Do you want this?"