Chapter Two: Duty and Desire

Victoire

By the time we arrived back at our townhouse, the night's chill had seeped into my bones, but I did not shiver. I had been trained never to show weakness, especially in front of my mother.

"You danced with him." My mother's voice was quiet, yet edged with sharpness.

"I did."

She gave a slow nod, removing her gloves with precise, deliberate movements. "And?"

"And what, Maman?"

She turned to face me fully, her dark eyes searching mine, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Did he seem interested?"

A hollow feeling settled in my chest.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to say he was merely being a rogue, that the Marquis de Rochefort danced with women the way other men drank wine—frequently and without attachment.

But that would be a lie.

And my mother could always smell a lie.

"He was… curious."

Her lips twitched, not in a smile but in calculation. "Good. That is something to work with."

I clenched my fists at my sides, fighting the urge to argue. What would be the point? We both knew my purpose. We both knew what was at stake.

Four younger siblings. Four innocent souls who still saw the world as something kind, something gentle.

If I failed to secure a marriage—a good one—what would happen to them?

I let out a slow breath and turned away. "I am tired, Maman. We will speak more in the morning."

She did not stop me.

But as I ascended the stairs to my room, I knew that my fate was no longer my own.

Étienne

My youngest sister, Margot, launched herself at me the moment I stepped through the grand doors of our estate.

"Étienne!" she squealed, her tiny arms locking around my waist. "You're late!"

I ruffled her golden curls, forcing a grin. "And yet, I have returned. Did you miss me so terribly?"

She pouted. "Maybe."

Before I could pry the truth from her, the rest of my siblings stormed into the entrance hall like a cavalry charge. Jean-Luc and Philippe, the twelve-year-old twins, immediately launched into a contest to see who could hit me the hardest on the arm. Louise, the second eldest after me, only crossed her arms and gave me a knowing smirk.

"Late night?" she mused. "Or were you too busy charming some poor soul at the ball?"

I smirked right back. "Why not both?"

The truth was, I had spent most of the night thinking about one person.

Victoire de Montreuil.

The way she had stared at me, unafraid. The way she had challenged me, as if daring me to break past her walls.

I had met countless women in my life. Some clever, some beautiful, some ambitious.

She was all three.

And she was in trouble.

That much had been clear in the way she held herself, the way her mother had watched me like a gambler desperate for a winning hand.

A small part of me—the part that had always been drawn to danger—wanted to see how far she would let me go before she either yielded or destroyed me.

But another part, the part of me that was my mother's son, knew better.

"You should be careful," Louise said suddenly, as if reading my mind.

I raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

She sighed, stepping closer, lowering her voice so the younger ones wouldn't hear. "Maman is already nervous about you ruining your reputation. Father's debts have put us in a difficult position. If you make a mistake—"

"I do not make mistakes," I cut in smoothly.

She gave me a look, one that said she knew me far too well to believe that lie.

"We both know that is not true," she murmured.

I chuckled, but it lacked real amusement. "Then perhaps I should simply make the right kind of mistake."

Louise frowned. "What do you mean?"

But I did not answer.

Because at that moment, I decided something.

Victoire de Montreuil was a challenge. A mystery. A woman who needed saving, whether she would admit it or not.

And I had always had a weakness for lost causes.

Victoire

The next morning, my youngest brother, Gabriel, climbed into my lap at the breakfast table, his small hands clutching my wrist.

"Will you take me to the park today?" he asked, eyes wide with hope.

I smoothed his dark curls, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "If Maman allows it."

He beamed, unbothered by the uncertainty of my words.

I envied that.

Across the table, my mother sipped her tea, watching me over the rim of her cup. "There is another ball this evening. The Comte d'Aubigné will be in attendance."

I tensed. "He is twice my age."

"He is wealthy," she countered. "And kind. That is all that should matter."

Kind.

A kind husband would not change the fact that I would be a prize to be won, a transaction rather than a bride.

But I had no choice.

I smiled tightly. "Of course, Maman."

If I did not find a husband soon, we would lose everything.

And yet, as I stared down at my untouched breakfast, my thoughts drifted to only one man.

Not the Comte d'Aubigné.

But the Marquis de Rochefort.

And that, I knew, was dangerous.

Étienne

The invitation arrived at midday.

Another ball. Another evening of polite conversation and thinly veiled schemes.

I had no intention of going.

Until I saw the name at the bottom of the guest list.

Victoire de Montreuil.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

Well.

Perhaps I would attend, after all.