My eyes roam over the crowd. It’s hard to distinguish one overly dressed fop from the next. A male voice rises almost loud enough to be heard over the music. No one else seems to mind, but it’s out of place enough to catch my attention. Inside voices only at these parties, or so one wrinkled old dowager saw fit to inform me when I had the nerve to laugh too loudly at one of these things. I was twelve. She’s dead now, so really, who’s laughing now, you rotten old tramp?

A quartet of men has gathered in the corner opposite me. Three of them look vaguely distressed, but the one in the middle appears unbothered. His perfectly aquiline nose is high in the air as he fixes the man who raised his voice—another of Alejandro’s friends, a man named Santos who mostly pretends I don’t exist—with a look cold enough to freeze this dreadfully warm wine.

I grab a fresh cup of wine off the nearest table and head over to the group. I don’t much care for the look of some of them, but they might know where Alejandro is.

The man at the center of the group watches me as I approach. He’s new here. I don’t often pay attention to the people who attend these balls, but I’m pretty good with faces and his is one I haven’t seen before.

He tilts his head to me as I approach in a polite little bow. “My lady.”

I can’t help it. I snort. “Hardly.”

The man remains unruffled, his face stoic, but there’s a hint of a smile in his gray eyes. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” He reaches for my hand—the one not holding the wine—and brings it to his lips.

Santos clears his throat as the man’s eyes cut to him. “It is my honor to introduce Cristobal Téllez-Girón, Marquis of Peñafiel.”

The Marquis of Peñafiel stands, releasing my hand. I fight the urge to wipe my palm on my skirts. I hate it when men do that. Keep your lips to yourselves, please and thank you.

“Ana,” I introduce myself. “No fancy title. Nice to meet you.” It’s not. I don’t care about him or his rank or Peñafiel, wherever the hell that is. I turn to Santos. “Have you seen Alejandro?”

Santos blinks at me once. Twice. Something passes across his face, like he can’t quite believe I’m speaking to him, and in public no less. “I—No. I have not.”

“Alejandro de Sonza?” The man who is apparently a very important son of a bitch in Peñafiel asks. “Are you an acquaintance of his?”

I shrug, taking another drink of my wine. It’s not bad stuff. “If you want to call it that, sure.”