Naeva Lécuyer was done. She was done with being trapped by her identity as a woman, done with being at the mercy of the whims of men. It was time she took her life into her own hands, and she had an idea of how to do that. It wasn’t very polite of her, but if this was what it took to get married and finally escape the status of debutante, trapped in limbo between girlhood and proper adulthood, going unheard.

She’d never met the man she danced with now, not before tonight. Mr. Marshall had a bit of a reputation that preceded him anywhere, though. Eloped with a girl his own age, and a son from the marriage, whose birth killed his mother. A tragedy, really, but Naeva was counting on his spontaneous reputation to cushion what she was about to so recklessly do.

“So, Mr. Marshall,” she began, swirling as she was past the portraits of the newly-opened gallery, “what is it that leads one to elope?”

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