Lady Rosalind Harrington gazed at her reflection in the ornate silver mirror, tilting her head to admire the pearl-encrusted hairpin that her dy's maid had just secured into her eborately styled auburn hair. "Perfect," she decred with a satisfied smile. "No one else at the Imperial Spring Ball will have anything quite so exquisite."

  "Indeed not, my dy," her maid Agnes replied, her voice carrying the practiced tone of someone who had spent years agreeing with every pronouncement her mistress made. "The pearls complement your complexion magnificently."

  Rosalind nodded, expecting nothing less. As the only daughter of Duke Harrington, one of the empire's wealthiest and most influential nobles, she had been raised to believe that magnificence was her birthright. Tonight's ball wasn't merely another social engagement—it was the perfect opportunity to advance her most treasured ambition: capturing the heart of Crown Prince Adrian.

  "Has my father departed already?" she asked, rising from her cushioned seat with practiced grace, her crimson silk gown rustling softly.

  "Yes, my dy. The Duke and Duchess left half an hour ago. The Duke mentioned something about discussing trade agreements with the Minister of Commerce before the dancing begins."

  Rosalind rolled her eyes. Always business with her father, even at occasions meant for pleasure. "Well, that works perfectly for me. I prefer making my own entrance anyway." She smoothed the front of her gown, ensuring the delicate gold embroidery caught the light just so. "The carriage is ready?"

  "Waiting in the courtyard, my dy."

  "Then I shall depart. Wish me luck, Agnes." She winked at her maid.

  "Good luck, my dy, though I doubt you'll need it," Agnes replied dutifully, though there was a flicker of concern in her eyes that Rosalind chose to ignore.

  The Imperial Pace glittered with thousands of candles, their light reflected and magnified by massive crystal chandeliers. Nobles from across the empire filled the grand ballroom, a kaleidoscope of expensive fabrics and precious jewels. Servants in imperial livery weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne and delicacies, while musicians pyed elegant melodies from a raised dais.

  Rosalind made her entrance with calcuted timing—not so early as to seem eager, not so te as to be overlooked. Conversations paused as she descended the marble staircase, her crimson gown a bold statement against the more subdued pastels many noblewomen had chosen. She had made certain to learn that red was the Prince's favorite color.

  "Lady Rosalind," came a familiar voice as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Lady Margaret, daughter of a baron and Rosalind's sometimes-friend, approached with a too-wide smile. "What a... daring choice of color."

  "Thank you, Margaret." Rosalind kissed the air beside both of the other woman's cheeks. "I see you've chosen seafoam green again. It's so... reliable of you."

  Margaret's smile tightened. "Have you heard the test? The Prince has been spending quite a lot of time with Lady Sophia recently."

  "Lady Sophia?" Rosalind arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "The Earl of Westmere's daughter? The quiet little mouse who barely speaks above a whisper?"

  "The very same. They were seen riding together in the royal gardens three times this week."

  Rosalind waved her hand dismissively. "The Prince is merely being courteous. Lady Sophia's mother was a close friend of the Queen before her passing. It's nothing more than obligation."

  Margaret looked unconvinced but wisely chose not to argue. "If you say so. Oh look, there's Countess Belmont. I must say hello. Excuse me."

  Left alone, Rosalind scanned the room, her green eyes searching for a particur figure. She found him surrounded by courtiers on the far side of the ballroom—tall, broad-shouldered, with the golden hair that was characteristic of the imperial family. Prince Adrian.

  Even from a distance, she could see the easy smile he wore as he conversed with his companions. That smile had first captured her attention two years ago, at her debut ball. Since then, she had dedicated herself to winning his heart, certain that she was destined to be his princess.

  Rosalind smoothed her gown once more and began making her way toward the Prince's circle, accepting a gss of champagne from a passing servant. Her path was deliberately indirect—she'd learned that seeming too eager was unbecoming. She stopped to exchange pleasantries with various nobles, always keeping the Prince in her peripheral vision.

  She was three conversation groups away when the orchestra began a new piece—the opening notes of the Empire Waltz, traditionally the first dance of any royal ball. Rosalind's heart quickened. This was her opportunity. If the Prince should choose her for the first dance...

  Her hopes shattered as she watched Prince Adrian turn away from his circle of admirers and walk directly to a slender young woman in a modest blue gown—Lady Sophia. With a bow, he extended his hand, which the shy noblewoman accepted with a blush visible even across the ballroom.

  Rosalind froze, champagne gss halfway to her lips, as the Prince led Lady Sophia to the center of the dance floor. The crowd parted respectfully, and other couples began to take their positions for the waltz.

  "Lady Harrington," came a voice at her elbow. "May I have the honor of this dance?"

  She turned to find Lord Pembrooke, a pleasant-faced young man who managed her father's eastern estates. Under normal circumstances, she might have considered him handsome, but at this moment, he was merely an obstacle blocking her view of the Prince.

  "I'm afraid I've twisted my ankle slightly on these marble floors," she lied smoothly. "Perhaps ter, my lord."

  Disappointment fshed across his face before he bowed. "Of course. I hope you recover swiftly."

  The moment he departed, Rosalind maneuvered herself to a better vantage point. The Prince and Lady Sophia were at the center of the formation, as protocol demanded. They moved with surprising harmony—the Prince's confident lead complementing Lady Sophia's graceful steps.

  "They make a lovely couple, don't they?" observed an elderly duchess beside her.

  "They're not a couple," Rosalind replied, more sharply than she'd intended. Composing herself, she added, "The Prince is simply fulfilling his duties as host. I expect he'll dance with at least a dozen dies tonight."

  The duchess gave her a knowing look. "Perhaps. Though I've never seen him smile quite so genuinely at a partner before."

  Rosalind's grip tightened on her champagne gss as she watched the Prince lean down to whisper something that made Lady Sophia ugh. The sight made her stomach churn. This wasn't how the evening was supposed to unfold. She was the one who was supposed to be in the Prince's arms, not that insipid, unremarkable girl.

  As the dance ended, the Prince escorted Lady Sophia back to the edge of the floor, but didn't leave her side. Instead, they continued conversing, his attention apparently captivated by whatever the soft-spoken dy was saying.

  "This won't do at all," Rosalind muttered to herself. She drained her champagne gss and set it on a passing servant's tray with unnecessary force. She would not be so easily defeated. After all, she was Lady Rosalind Harrington, the Pearl of the Capital, and no shy little mouse was going to steal what she had already cimed as hers.

  With renewed determination, she began plotting her approach. The night was still young, and before it ended, she would make certain that Prince Adrian had eyes only for her.