PROLOGUE
London, May 1807
Glittering chandeliers hung high overhead,casting light upon the swirls of colour below. Miss Maria Roberts flipped open her fan and waved it before her rhythmically as her stomach swooped in anticipation. Music filled the grand ballroom, and hope swelled in her chest.
The ballroom was large and full, the air fragrant with perfume and heavy with humidity. It was utterly delightful.
She scanned those in attendance, enjoying the bustling activity and high energy, and her gaze irrevocably slid sideways toward a group of young men. Despite her best efforts to the contrary, she frequently found herself watching the handsome profile of Jasper Sinclair, the future Duke of Derby.
The young man was the focus of all the society mamas, who were no doubt studiously directing their newly out daughters in the art of fan flirting in his direction—a practice which continued to mystify Maria. He was charming, affable, and knew precisely what to do to get a woman’s heart fluttering.
Her stomach twisted in knots, and she suppressed a sigh. With every one of the man’s breaths, he stole hers away. With every flash of his single dimple, tingles skittered over her skin. And, Lord help her, with every word he spoke, her belly trembled. His hair was black as pitch and appeared feathery to the touch—heavens, but she wanted to touch it—and his eyes…
“Have you any names on your dance cards?” her dear friend Lady Juliana Sinclair asked, jolting Maria out of her ill-timed musings about the woman’s brother.
The third of their trio, Miss Heather Morgan, shook her head. “I do not expect to receive any. My aunt says that I ought instead to focus on?—”
“Come now, dearest,” Juliana murmured, a delicate frown puckering her brows. “You ought never to take what she says to heart. Your aunt’s treatment of you is abysmal. You may set your heart on whomever or whatever you desire. And I daresay you should.”
Heather nodded. “Yes. Of course you’re right, Juliana.”
“Indeed.” Juliana turned her gaze to Maria. “And you, Maria? Have you any names on your dance card?”
“No.” Her stomach gave a sad wobble. “We are only in our second season; not on the shelfalready.”
“I should say not,” Heather mused, her expression rueful. “It would appear, however, that wearewallflowers.”
“Wallflowers.” Juliana scoffed. “Surely not! You two are lovely, and I’m… Well, you two are very pretty.”
Hiding a perplexing flinch at being calledpretty, Maria gently chided her friend. “Oh pish. While our intelligence might be intimidating for men—and thereforemustbe disguised—our beauty is undeniable.”
Juliana mightn’t believe it, but shewasbeautiful: tall and shapely with stunning hair. And, for pity’s sake, she was the daughter of a duke! It seemed impossible that men would not line up for the opportunity to dance with her. But her friend had experienced several disheartening encounters with disingenuous men and fortune hunters—and was, Maria knew, understandably jaded.
Dancers whirled past, and Maria watched them with longing. How odd that she’d never been particularly fond of dancing, and yet she now found herself missing it.
“Besides, how handsome a woman is scarcely determines how marriageable she is. One must also consider their breeding,” Heather mused, listing the items on her fingers, “the suitability of their relations, or whether madness runs in their blood—” Her eyes flashed wide. “Oh Maria, I’m sorry. I?—”
Maria waved a gloved hand through the air, her empty dance card dangling limply from her wrist. “I know that you meant no harm by it, Heather.”
“Your brother is a genuinely lovely person; not mad, at all,” Juliana put in. “I fail to comprehend society’s lack of acceptance.”
Maria nodded. “Thank you.”
“Nevertheless,” Heather continued, “we are undeniably wallflowers.”
“I daresay it matters naught…”
Her friends’ discussion continued as they strode to the refreshment table, giving Maria an opportunity to gather herself. All the while, her thoughts turned inward. Her brother, Thomas, was indeed wonderful. And Juliana was correct: he was by no means mad. With thehaut ton’sskewed definition of madness, however, Thomas was forced to?—
Maria discreetly cleared her throat in an attempt to dislodge the lump that had abruptly formed there. Thomas wasn’t the only reason she was a social pariah. It was also because of her boisterous and overbearing mother, her too-familiar father, and her own…peculiarities.
A heavy sigh escaped her.
She looked downward at her attire. That evening, she wore white, like the other debutantes of theton. Her bodice was modest, her sleeves capped, and her brown hair done fashionably high. Her gown wasn’t threadbare or out of style, but for some reason she felt mundane, and wished she were permitted to wear a colour that brightened her grey eyes and detracted from her too-strong jaw.
No, her inner voice challenged. She didn’t just feelmundane. Today, this dress felt…wrong. Mayhap it didn’t perfectly suit her body—despite the modiste’s assurances to the contrary—or perhaps the lack of colour made her look drawn. But whatever the reason, the wrongness itched along her spine and curdled high in her belly.
And yet… She still wanted to dance.
