* * *
“They are rather like birds,”Maria remarked, gazing dispassionately at the throng of London’sfinestmoving about the Weatherby grand ballroom.
“Mmm,” Heather agreed. “Ravens and tits waggling and preening at each other.”
Beside them, Juliana smothered a laugh with the back of her gloved hand.
Maria snorted, a smile tugging at her lips. “They’re fascinating, really.” Indeed, in observingpolitesociety, one could easily conclude that they were anything but polite. The garish dance of popularity, the desire for favour and admiration and, beneath it all, the stifling fear of rejection were apparent in every stiff back, squared shoulder, and pained eye among most members of theton.
Then there were the few of the highest societal standing, the few that took delight in controlling the behaviour and opinions of those they deemed below them. Heaven forbid someone cross them, or the gossip mill would see them barred from every shop and home in good standing, leaving them to either live their lives shunned or quit London entirely.
Everyone in attendance was performing for their peers—even Maria. But while others in society merely sought esteem or marriage from their act, Maria was hiding part of herself. A part that could ruin not only Maria but all those among her acquaintance.
Her stomach wobbled as the strains of another quadrille filled the space and dancers gathered. This evening, she had an even greater performance to enact.
Among the spectators, young ladies tittered behind their fans and young men put their names upon dance cards, while everyone else engaged in lively conversation. Ordinarily, Maria would have remained against the wall with her friends and enjoyed observing human behaviour, but one glance across the ballroom would have her no doubt gazing into the disapproving eyes of her imperious mother.
“Such a pity that I must join them,” Maria whinged.
“Mustyou?” Heather asked. “Surely there is some other solution.”
“If I do not comply with my parents’ demands, my positions at both the paper and Bow Street will be forfeit. I’ll no longer be capable of housing Thomas.”
Dancers swirled past, wafting the heavy odour of perfume and sweat in their direction.
Juliana wrinkled her nose. “Surely they would be forfeit anyway if you took a husband. I’m fortunate that Leo is a radical in his own way. Most men of thehaut tonwould not be receptive to their wife engaging in work—even under the assumption that her endeavours were charitable.”
“The right man, however,” Heather added, “should not impose too much upon your life.”
Juliana leaned closer. “Additionally, they’re rather enjoyable in the evening…”
“We’ve heard all about what a vigorous lover your marquess is,” Heather interjected. “And as salacious as that information is, it does not help Maria in this moment.”
Juliana sighed. “Very well.”
Maria stifled a groan. “The thought of partaking in tedious, meaningless conversation is not to be borne. A man oughtn’t be the answer to my predicament.”
“Mmm,” Heather hummed. “Have you consideredbeingthat man?”
“I—” Maria blinked. “No, I have not. Is thatpossible?” She tapped at her chin, then shook her head with a sigh. “That would not work. My parents will expect to not only meet a potential suitor, but to also attend a wedding. I cannot duplicate myself.”
“Too right.” Heather nodded.
“Perhaps we could find a solution such that your parents will be satisfied but you needn’t alter your life to accommodate a man,” Juliana murmured.
The music swelled, then concluded, and the dancers separated before new pairs joined for the next set. Maria sighed. Would that she could simply abandon her marital obligation andbecomeMr. Duncan Robertson. Though she did not particularly enjoy womanhood, she had no true wish to become a man. But a life free of restrictions, and the ability to control one’s own finances—orfuture, for Christ’s sake—would be just the thing.
“Indeed.” Heather leaned closer. “Simply find someone biddable?—”
“And beddable.”
Maria lifted an eyebrow. “I cannot go about sampling suitors’ sexual wares. How, precisely, do you expect me to judge his abilities in the bedchamber? How do I even encourage one to ask me to dance? I’ve been on the shelf for so long, I daresay the men in this ballroom know nothing of my existence.”
“Hush now. Jasper is here, and—blimey—he’s sopping wet!”
Maria followed Heather’s gaze toward the ballroom’s entrance. There he was. Wetness notwithstanding, he cut a dashing figure in his black trousers and tailcoat, green striped waistcoat, and starched white cravat. His dark brown hair, normally quaffed and appearing soft to the touch, was flattened to his scalp, the thick spikes dripping down his chiselled features.
Her pulse sped treasonously at the sight of him, and the underside of her breasts grew abruptly damp.
