"Unfortunately, yes. And she won't be pleased about you."
"Wonderful. My first ball and I already have an enemy."
"Not an enemy. Competition."
"For you?"
"For the position. But she's already lost, because you have something she never will."
"Flour in my hair?"
"My heart."
The Winterbourne mansion blazed with light. Every window glowed, carriages lined the drive, and Marianne could hear music drifting from within. Her hands trembled as footmen helped her from the carriage.
"Ready?" Alaric asked, offering his arm.
"No."
"Perfect. Neither am I."
They entered through doors that seemed designed to intimidate, into an entrance hall that was all gold and crystal. A butler in elaborate livery stood at the entrance to the ballroom.
"The Duke of Wexmere and Mrs. Marianne Whitby," he announced in a voice that carried.
The entire ballroom seemed to turn as one. Hundreds of faces, all focused on them—on her. Marianne felt Alaric's arm tense under her hand.
"Breathe," he murmured. "Just breathe."
They descended the stairs into the ballroom, and Marianne tried not to stare. The room was magnificent; chandeliers dripping crystal, walls lined with mirrors that reflected the light infinitely, flowers everywhere despite the winter season.
"Alaric!" A woman's voice, imperious and familiar.
Lady Bethany Rhodes approached like a ship under full sail—elaborate purple gown, diamonds at her throat, expression that could freeze flame. She was beautiful, with Alaric's dark hair (though clearly aided by art) and sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"Aunt Bethany," Alaric said formally, bowing slightly.
"You came." She sounded surprised. "I thought you might ignore my summons as you have the last twelve."
"This one seemed particularly insistent."
"They were all insistent. You simply chose to finally listen." Her gaze turned to Marianne, assessing. "And this is the baker."
"This is Mrs. Marianne Whitby," Alaric corrected firmly.
"Yes, the baker. From your little village." She circled Marianne much as Madame Laurent had, but with less kindness. "You're prettier than I expected."
"Thank you?" Marianne managed.
"That wasn't necessarily a compliment. Pretty faces are common. Character is rare."
"Then it's fortunate I have both," Marianne said before she could stop herself.
Lady Bethany's eyebrows rose. "Indeed? And what makes you think you have character?"
"I'm here, aren't I? Despite knowing I'll be judged, dissected, and found wanting by people who've never done a day's honest work in their lives."
"Careful, girl. Those people are my friends."
