Blackwood

The grand chandelier bathed the ballroom in golden light, its glow reflecting off silken gowns and polished boots. Laughter and music swirled together in an intoxicating harmony, yet the Earl of Blackwood sat still, a shadow amidst the revelry. His dark navy coat, embroidered with gold, bore the weight of countless battles, and his stern features remained untouched by the joy around him. And then—like she always did—she found him. Princess Alexa, draped in an elegant olive-green gown, stepped away from the swirling dance floor, ignoring the murmurs of nobles and the questioning gazes of courtiers. She didn’t care for their whispers. She only cared for him. Before he could protest, before he could remind her of their difference in years, their difference in status, she was there, climbing into his lap with the ease of a woman who had done so many times before. Her hands rested on his chest, her eyes locking onto his with quiet defiance. My lady, he murmured, voice low, edged with warning. You always look so alone, she whispered back, fingers grazing the rough stubble along his jaw. I cannot bear it. His breath hitched. He was too old for her. Too scarred, too war-torn. Yet she had chosen him, over the younger, eager lords who sought her hand. And now, in front of the entire court, she nestled against him as though no one else existed. A waltz played on, but the real dance was between them.