1802, London

It was a brisk evening in early spring when Miss Lavinia Somers entered the glittering ballroom of Almack’s Assembly Rooms, her every step measured, her expression one of cool composure. The soft rustle of silk gowns and the quiet hum of conversation filled the air, but Lavinia's mind was elsewhere, focused on the matter at hand: Lord Percy Aldridge.

The young viscount was slouched in the far corner of the room, looking as though the very notion of a ballroom was beneath him. His attire—an exquisite suit of dark blue velvet, adorned with fine silver buttons—was impeccable, but his posture was far from proper, his shoulders hunched in defiance of both fashion and expectation. His gaze, however, was sharp, flicking from one figure to another, as though trying to pinpoint the next possible target for his sarcastic remarks.

Lavinia could almost hear the sigh of exasperation that formed in her chest, though she kept her expression neutral. She had grown accustomed to such behavior. After all, Percy Aldridge had spent the past week acting as though every ton event was nothing more than a tedious parade for his amusement. Tonight would be no different, she was certain.

The problem was, Lavinia had made a bet—a most unfortunate bet—with the boy’s mother, the formidable Lady Aldridge. The older woman had insisted that her son, despite his many flaws, was of prime marriageable age and thus in desperate need of a wife to save his future. Lavinia, ever the optimist, had offered to find him one.

But Percy Aldridge, in his usual manner, had rejected the notion with all the enthusiasm of a man forced to eat boiled turnips.

Now, standing at the entrance of the ballroom, Lavinia faced a choice: attempt to strike up a civil conversation with a man who despised her presence, or proceed with her original plan—to turn his stubbornness into an opportunity.

She chose the latter.

With the grace and poise of a woman who had spent countless hours honing her ability to navigate the complex webs of the ton, Lavinia made her way across the floor, her eyes fixed on Percy. As she approached, she couldn’t help but overhear the low hum of conversation swirling around him—mostly admiring glances and whispered admiration for his cheeky bravado. To the rest of the room, he was an aristocratic rogue, a reprobate who was always the center of attention.

But to Lavinia? He was nothing more than a challenge.

"Lord Percy," Lavinia said, her voice smooth like velvet, tinged with just enough sarcasm to mask her true intent. "How charming to see you looking so… engaged in the evening’s festivities."

He turned, his grin spreading wider as he caught sight of her. "Miss Somers," he drawled, giving her a look that could only be described as amused condescension. "What brings you here tonight? Surely you’ve more important matters to attend to than attempting to drag me into yet another dance."

Lavinia’s lips curled into a smile, though her eyes remained sharp. "As it happens, my Lord, I have made it my business to ensure that every debutante in the room has the perfect chance to meet you. I do hope your presence does not disappoint."

The subtle jab was enough to make Percy laugh, a sound that echoed through the ballroom. "Ah, Miss Somers, always with a sharp tongue. You’ve been matchmaking again, haven’t you? I daresay you’ve found someone who will tolerate my... charming company."

"Why, of course," Lavinia replied coolly, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "But I think it might be more interesting if I allowed you to choose your own bride tonight. Wouldn't you agree?"

Percy raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued despite himself. "You think I’ll choose someone at this bloody spectacle? These women barely know how to speak to a man without giggling. You might as well try to charm a bloody housecat."

Lavinia’s smile deepened. "Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken, Lord Percy. A true gentleman knows how to appreciate a woman’s wit—especially when it’s laced with a little bit of... mischief. Why not put your talents to the test?"

Percy chuckled, his eyes narrowing. "And what, pray tell, are the stakes of this little game of yours, Miss Somers?"

Lavinia leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Simple. If I find you a bride in three months’ time, you must publicly vouch for my skills as a matchmaker. If I fail, I will retire from the business entirely."

The challenge hung in the air between them, charged with the weight of both social expectation and personal pride. Percy seemed to consider this for a moment, his grin never faltering.

"Three months," he mused, as if tasting the idea. "Very well, Miss Somers. But if you fail—and I dare say you will—I expect you to stop meddling with the ton altogether. You’ll never catch me in a trap like that."

Lavinia’s smile didn’t waver. "I’ll hold you to your word, my Lord."

With that, the bet was made. And with it, the stage was set for a rivalry that would carry them through balls, parties, and social events where every whispered conversation and every glance could change the course of the future.

Lavinia had just set her sights on winning. And Percy? He had no idea what he’d just agreed to.