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Summary
Armand had only missed two seasons on the London ton, but it may as well have been a decade. He recognised less than half the people in the ballroom, and those he did recognise wouldn’t meet his eyes. That was to be expected. Armand had prepared for this. At least, he thought he had. The shame that curdled in his stomach was hotter than he anticipated, and he felt the heat rise to his cheeks and the back of his neck. He grabbed a champagne flute as a waiter passed and retreated to the back wall, telling himself that the whispering wasn’t about him. There were all manner of scandalous characters circling the room, and there was no way he was the worst.
All he’d done was fall helplessly in love with a well-to-do French noble and get caught with his tongue down said noble’s throat in the King’s rose garden.