Chapter 1
“My dear, who is that lovely blonde thing being partnered by Mr. Davies?”
“Miss Mariah Duncan. She is quite the popular young lady this Season.”
Miss Imogen Duncan just barely heard the words over the din of the orchestra and the hundred or so voices that rose up like the squawking of so many peahens in the glittering ballroom. But at the sound of her sister Mariah’s name, she started.
She peered around the column she’d been practically propping up the past hour and spied a group of older women conversing on the other side, their jewel-colored turbaned heads bent together. Squinting, she tried to make out their features before giving an irritated huff. She could see their blurry outlines, but all details were completely lost.
She clenched her gloved hands, helplessness coursing through her. How she wished for her spectacles. But no, they were safe on her dressing table back at home where her mother decreed they should stay when she forayed into public. Of course, that was not the most convenient place for them as far as Imogen was concerned. She would much rather have them perched on her nose. But she had learned to pick her battles long ago, and this was one she could not hope to win.
The women, having fallen silent for a moment, struck up their conversation again, drawing Imogen’s attention back to them.
“She certainly is the best of this year’s batch of hopefuls. The men are drawn to her like flies to honey,” said the third lady.
“With those looks, do you blame them?” chimed in the first, her voice dripping boredom. “If I had a figure like that I’m certain the young bucks would be at my heels as well.”
Irritation reared its head, wiping out Imogen’s initial benign feelings for the women. It was not the first time she had overheard remarks of this nature, and it would certainly not be the last. Was that all that people in this blasted city cared about, whether a woman was beautiful?
She scanned the crowd that twirled about on the floor, trying to make out her sister. Even with Imogen’s impaired vision, Mariah stood out right away, with her pale, almost white hair piled high on her head and the beacon of her white dress with the faintest hint of pink at the hem and bodice. She held herself with a poise, moved with a lithe grace that was unmatched by any of the other ladies present. Imogen did not need her spectacles to know that her sister outshone the rest.
But why could no one concentrate on the sweetness of her spirit? Looks were all well and good, but more importantly, Mariah had an uncommon kindness to her. If only people could see beyond her face.
“Who do you suppose will be the one to catch her?” asked the second, breaking Imogen from her reverie.
“She is prettier than her sister Frances, who married the Earl of Sumner several years ago. I don’t see why the chit couldn’t land herself a marquess before the year is out.”
“Her father would be a fool to accept less,” said the first. “With her face, she could get a duke if she wanted.”
Imogen frowned. The women’s comments were making her skin crawl, as if she’d just been immersed in a tub of dirty water. She began to back away, determined to rejoin her mother so she no longer had to hear the mercenary comments being directed at her sister. But the next words stopped her cold.
“Wasn’t there another sister?”
Every muscle in Imogen’s body froze. Her feet felt nailed to the floor. To her dismay, she found herself holding her breath and leaning closer.
“Yes,” the third woman answered after a thoughtful pause, “I believe there was. Plain thing, awkward to the point of being painful to watch. I wonder whatever became of her?”
Imogen did not want to hear this. So why couldn’t she move? What kept her rooted to the spot as those horrible women talked about her?
“Ah yes, I remember her now. Plump little mouse of a thing. Always squinting. She came out the same year as Lady Sumner. She was completely eclipsed, of course, and no one ever thought of her after that. Not that they ever did before, poor girl. I believe she had one more Season after her sister married, but her mother’s effort was wasted, to say the least.”
“I hear she’s back in town for Miss Mariah’s debut.”
One woman clucked her tongue in sympathy. “It can only be worse for her this time around. There’s no chance of her making a match now. Not at her age.”
“Well, at least Lord and Lady Tarryton can be assured they will have one daughter at home to see them through old age.”
Their titters reached her, finally propelling her from her hiding place. Tears burned her eyes as she sidled behind the women and through the thickly milling crowd, making certain to stay well out of their view. She could not bear to see the pity in their eyes if they caught sight of her. She should have moved away at the first mention of her sister. It served her right for listening in on gossip that was not meant for her ears.
What was incorrect about anything those women said about her, after all? She was awkward, and plain, and a spinster quite firmly on the shelf with no hopes for marriage. And she knew, even without hearing the words aloud at home, that her parents held the belief that she would be with them for the remainder of their lives. So why did it hurt so very much to hear three ill-mannered tabbies talking of her that way?
Imogen worked her way through the ballroom, knocked this way and that by the mass of bodies, tears blurring her already useless vision. She blinked them fiercely back. Now was not the time, not here in front of all these people, most of whom probably thought the same of her as those women did, if they thought of her at all. But it seemed her heart would not listen, for it repeated in an endless litany what she fought so hard to forget: that she would remain unloved by any man, with no future, no hope for a life of her own.
She bit her lip as a sob threatened. Spying the open terrace doors to her right, she swiftly changed course and headed for them. No one, not even her mother, would begrudge her a few minutes alone.
The coolness of the evening air settled about her, and it was only as the faint breeze turned her cheeks icy that she realized her tears had not been held in check and had in fact left wet trails down her face. She swiftly clamped a hand over her mouth as another sob welled up in her chest. No, the terrace was no good. She needed to get further away. She grabbed her skirts in both hands and flew down the stone steps into the garden, needing the cover of darkness so she could give vent to what was quickly breaking through the surface.
She sped along the well-tended paths, deeper into the dimness of the foliage. The lanterns that had been strung about grew sparse the deeper she went, but it was still not private enough. And as her eyes darted about uselessly, skimming the darkening vegetation for a hiding place, she called herself ten times a fool. She was six and twenty, for goodness’ sake. She’d had eight years to come to terms with her unmarried state. She had realized upon her first entrance into Society that she would not take, that she would be the focus of no man’s affections. It was no surprise to her.
