This is a work-in-progress draft:

Evelyn Wyndham knew something was amiss the moment the carriage slowed.

Eastbury Manor was never quiet before an assembly, but today the drive looked more like a military campaign than a respective manor house preparing for a ball. Footmen hurried across the gravel with armfuls of greenery. A groom jogged past carrying a music stand under one arm, his coat unbuttoned, his expression harried. From the open front doors drifted the sound of raised harried voices, efficient, but unmistakably urgent.

She adjusted her gloves, her fingers tightening despite the tinge of annoyance that curled in her chest. Maybe perhaps if she arrived a few hours earlier, she would have received a warmer welcome.

The carriage halted. Before the door was even opened, Evelyn caught sight of her aunt and uncle standing just beyond the steps. Her uncle, Colonial Nathaniel Rich, looked thinner than she remembered. His shoulders were slightly hunched with age despite his regular rigid posture, his attention divided between his wife and a man standing beside them.

The man had his back to the drive and he leaned on a cane.

A shiver of anticipation bolted down her spine. Evelyn’s eyes narrowed at the unnamed man.

She hesitated as the footman lowered the step. She took in the stranger in quick, assessing glances—the dark cut of his coat, worn but well kept; the way his weight favored one side; the quiet authority in his stance. He was listening rather than speaking, his head inclined slightly toward her aunt.

Nathaniel looked up then, and whatever strain had been etched into his features vanished at once.

“Evelyn,” he said, his voice warm with unmistakable relief.

Her aunt turned, her smile gentle, welcoming. “There you are, my dear.”

Evelyn stepped down, smoothing her skirts, her unease sharpening into alertness. Her uncle did not look merely pleased to see her. He looked saved.

And that, more than the bustle or the hurried preparations, set her nerves on edge.

She had just begun to return Elizabeth’s embrace when the man beside them turned.

Evelyn froze.

Seven years had done little to dull her recognition.

Lord Emmett Shaw stood before her, one hand resting on the cane, his expression already darkening as his gaze landed on her face. He was taller than she remembered. Or was it perhaps, he was simply broader. But not broader than when he used to be soft around the middle. No, it certainly was all muscle now. His hair was shorter, his features leaner, more angular. There was a hardness to him now that had not been there when they were children.

And yet—

Before she could collect herself or decide whether to greet him coolly or pretend he was a stranger, he spoke.

“Well,” he drawled, one brow lifting faintly. “If it isn’t Puck.”

The nickname struck her like a slap.

Her spine stiffened.Her eyes turned into slits. “Do not call me that.”

His mouth curved, not quite into a smile. “Still hate it, then.”

She bristled. “I hated it then. I hate it now. And come to think of it, I still don’t want to talk to you.”

Elizabeth’s gaze flicked between them, sharp with interest, though her expression remained placid. Nathaniel cleared his throat, clearly preparing to intervene, but Evelyn was already past caring.