Chapter 1: IT'S A PROMISE
Georgiana Hastings stood before the grand mirror, cloaked in silk and secrets.
Her figure, statuesque and unapologetically feminine, was sheathed in an emerald gown that clung like prophecy. The fabric shimmered with the quiet defiance of shattered stars. Silver-threaded embroidery traced her bodice — serpentine, enviable — embracing her hourglass silhouette before cascading into a sea of silk that pooled with intent at her feet.
But beneath the opulence, something frayed.
Today was not merely ceremonial. It was consequential. Her engagement loomed ahead — a gilded cage dressed in roses and royal expectation.
A quiet retinue of maids moved about her with practised grace, their motions precise, reverent. Beauty was being fashioned onto her skin — a ritual laced with lavender, rose water, and the hushed weight of inheritance.
"Time for your bath, my lady," said Edith, her voice gentle, but brooking no refusal.
Georgiana inclined her head and offered a smile that passed for sincerity. She had worn masks longer than she had worn corsets.
The bathing chamber gleamed — marble, brass, and gilded lilies — its splendour bordering on suffocation. As she stepped into the steaming water, scented with jasmine and crushed petals, warmth swirled about her limbs. But her mind remained untouched. Cold. Calculating. Pacing behind her eyes.
One of the maids murmured as she poured water over her back. "Today begins a new chapter, my lady. You shall be a vision."
"I always am," Georgiana replied. Her voice, smooth as satin, bore an edge only a trained ear would hear. The mirror never lied. Beneath beauty, doubt waited.
She was dried like porcelain, wrapped in towels soft as breath, and escorted to the dressing chamber. The gown awaited her — not a garment, but a fate. As the laces tightened and her breath narrowed, she remained composed. Every muscle honed to radiate elegance.
"A lady of my station must embody restraint," she remarked lightly, though her smirk wavered.
Then came the final touches. A silver necklace bearing a solitary emerald rested just above her collarbone — a gleaming promise, or perhaps a warning. Matching earrings hung like finely wrought daggers. Her hair was swept into an elaborate updo, pinned with pearls that glinted like stars held captive in a net.
She looked formidable. She felt exposed.
"Are you ready, my lady?" Edith asked.
Georgiana met her reflection, gaze steady. "I was born ready," she replied.
Or at the very least — I must be.
She took one final look. What stared back was not merely a noblewoman. It was a storm dressed in silk.
"Let us proceed," she said quietly. "Let me greet my future."
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The ballroom glittered like a fantasy — chandeliers dripping crystal, music floating through golden air, gowns sweeping across polished marble like ripples on water.
Georgiana Hastings stepped inside, every inch the noble heiress. Her emerald gown shimmered under candlelight, drawing eyes as if she were the very centre of gravity. Gasps followed in her wake, but she heard none of them. Her gaze had already found him.
Lord Alexander Blackwood stood at the far end of the ballroom, surrounded by dukes and advisors — yet utterly alone. His posture was perfect. His expression unreadable. The kind of man sculpted not by affection, but by expectation.
Their eyes met.
Her pulse stuttered.
He approached, every movement controlled, deliberate. The weight of their future walked between them.
"Lady Georgiana," he said smoothly, bowing with just enough grace to satisfy the watching crowd. "You look… formidable."
"So I'm told," she replied with a slight smile. "But then, this is a formidable evening."
His eyes lingered on her gown. "Emerald. Bold."
"Subtlety is for women who aren't being given away like treaties," she said lightly, the words wrapped in a smile.
There was a flicker — something unreadable — behind his eyes.
The orchestra swelled. He extended his hand.
"Shall we?"
She placed her gloved hand in his, and they moved onto the dance floor like two celestial bodies caught in orbit. Every step was flawless. Every glance rehearsed. But beneath the perfection, the tension simmered.
"You're calm," he murmured, his hand warm at her waist.
"I've had practice," she replied. "This isn't the first night I've been watched like prey in silk."
A pause. His jaw tightened just slightly.
"I don't intend to be your hunter."
She tilted her head, gaze unwavering. "No. But you will be my husband."
They spun in unison, emerald silk catching the light like liquid fire.
"Is that a warning?" he asked quietly.
"It's a promise," she said.
Their steps slowed with the music's final note. They parted, perfectly in sync.
She didn't curtsey.
He didn't bow.
Just silence. Just heat and history and expectation.
As she turned to leave, she spoke without looking back.
"Whatever this becomes, Lord Blackwood… I intend to win."
Her gown swept behind her like a blade unsheathed, and the crowd parted without knowing why.
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The ballroom glittered like a page torn from myth — chandeliers spilling crystal light, violin strings weeping through golden air, and a hundred noble bodies draped in velvet and suspicion. The scent of rose oil, sweat, and sugar clung to the tapestries like memory.
But in the shadow beyond the arched doorway, Emily stood with a silver tray pressed to her chest.
She wasn't meant to be there.
She wasn't meant to see him.
And yet—she could not leave.
---
Alexander Blackwood stood beneath the tallest chandelier, midnight-clad, his posture immaculate — as though carved from some cold inheritance of kings. His jaw was tight. Too tight. Like the collar around his throat had been fastened by centuries of duty.
Beside him, Georgiana Hastings gleamed in emerald silk — her figure sculpted, her smile diamond-cut, her bare neck kissed only by a crown-shaped emerald. She looked born to rule. And she knew it.
They were everything the peerage had prayed for:
Legacy and power, sewn together by law.
Emily's lungs felt too small.
A murmur rippled through the ballroom like distant thunder:
"Any moment now…"
"Is it true the ring was Queen Adeline's?"
"She'll have Ashbourne in her palm by Christmas."
"If he lets her touch him, that is…"
"Please. You've heard the stories, haven't you?"
"The stables. The fencing hall. That Italian pianist—"
"Shh! His mother's watching."
---
Then the string quartet stilled.
The master of ceremonies stepped forward — an old man with a voice like parchment cracking:
"Let the promise be sealed. House Blackwood and House Hastings — in unity, in strength."
A hush swept the room.
Alexander turned toward Georgiana.
Georgiana faced him. Her lashes lowered, then lifted — theatrical, precise. Her gloved fingers never once reached for his. She didn't need to touch him to own him.
Then—slowly, elegantly—he bent toward her.
The kiss landed soft and mechanical.
It lasted exactly three seconds.
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TO BE CONTINUED---