“You danced with her, didn’t you, Sadler?”
“It’s her come-out,” explained a voice, presumably Sadler. One could hear the shrug in his voice. “I felt bad for her.”
“Besides,” came another voice, “the patronesses have threatened to ban any gentlemen caught not dancing.”
Beatrix’s buoyant evening of triumph crashed to a sudden and ignoble end.
All her hopes and dreams, too.
Of their own accord, her feet began moving. Not toward the ballroom—this night had provided her with enough dancing to last her the rest of her days—but to the receiving hall, where she communicated a sore stomach to a footman. As she waited for her evening cape, she remembered to have a message sent to the ancient great-aunt-once-removed that she’d left dozing in a corner of the ballroom. The distant relation was serving as her sponsor for the night and chaperone for the season.
A few minutes later, Beatrix was outside, hands clasped tightly before her, fingernails digging crescents into her palms through silk gloves as she awaited the carriage she’d hired for the night. Then she was seated on leather squabs and rattling across wet London cobblestones, the steadyclip-clopof horse’s hooves echoing in their wake.
Somehow, she’d managed to accomplish all this with a dense, unresolved sob caught in her chest. Though utterly shattered, she held onto this caught sob, for it felt like the only thread holding her pieces together.
With its release, she would entirely fall apart.
She would not—could not—cry.
She’d endured enough shame for one night.
Yet the question came—and kept coming…
Hadn’t she done everything right?
Except it wasn’t the correct question.
Hadn’t she done everything she could?
The answer was swift and brutal.
It wasn’t enough.
Shewasn’t enough.
She never would be.
She hadn’t fooled anyone—only herself.
That good, solid husband and those good, solid children and that good, solid future…
A mirage.
And in the way of all mirages, it had evaporated into nothingness the instant her grasp attempted to close around it. All that remained was endless desert stretching ahead of her for an eternity of miles and years.
Her intellect and wits were all she could depend upon in this world—as ever.
They’d served her this far—and simply would have to keep doing so.
CHAPTER ONE
EPSOM DOWNS, JUNE 1822
Dev stood amid the throng of society pleasure-seekers and experienced the satisfaction that never lasted beyond the inhalation and exhalation of a single breath.
Of course, they would come, a small voice reminded him.
This was Prinny’s Stand, and today was the running of the Oaks, the fourth major horse race of the season.
