Lord Wesley Craig never marries. I already know everything about him. Brazen, shameless, sharp-tongued, my unbearable neighbour is the worst man in all of Arraine. He only knows how to circle the heads of young impressionable ladies, burn through life and have fun with dissolute widows. But my cousin Emmeline Blackthorne is convinced of the opposite and therefore argued with me that Lord Craig would certainly invite her to the ball. And not on any, but on the Winter Royal, where aristocrats traditionally make an offer to their chosen ones. It's my duty to keep Emmy safe from this stupid mistake. In any way.