Twofor her mother, who had once taught her that dignity was not a thing granted by men, but a thing a lady carried for herself.
Threefor Arabella and Eleanor, a steadfast presence in her life in their own special way.
Fourfor William, her little brother, who was far away at Eton, with his boots too tight and his letters filled with triumphs he pretended were accidents.
Five…Six… Seven…
A breeze rose, stroking the loose tendrils at the nape of her neck past the ribbon of her mask. She breathed in the damp earth, the orange blossom kept too warm beneath glass, and the fresh scent of the fountain’s spray.
The sounds of the ballroom softened to a pulse: violins, the hush of silk, the occasional rise of pleasure at a clever turn or successful flirtation.
Eight… Nine… Ten…
She did not think of her stepfather again. She would not let him occupy her mind. Instead, she thought of the rumor she had sown last Season. It was a ridiculous, breathless thing because gossip could be bent to purpose if one were shameless enough to hold the needle.
Every false assignation had bought her a little time. Every tittering snub had kept unwanted suitors away. And if her price for that freedom was a ruin that could be undone when she chose… well, she would manage the unpicking herself.
Twenty… Thirty…
“Foolish girl,” she murmured to the night, not specifying whether she meant herself for the rumors or her mother for her devotion or the world for its blindness.
Forty… Fifty… Sixty…
She could breathe better now. She could step back into the crowd. Sheshould. If she kept her promise of ten minutes, Howard’s eyes might skip over her when she returned.
She lifted her skirts an inch, practical as any woman moving across cold stone, and turned toward the brighter path.
Atsixty-eight, another laugh reached her. It was masculine, amused, the sort of sound that assumed the world would always make way for it. The answer was a softer trill, distinctly feminine, distinctly daring.
Gwen stilled.
Curiosity was a vice she had never pretended to quell; it had delivered her from boredom too many times to count.
Seventy…
She did not move forward.
Seventy-one…
And then she did.
There were fewer lanterns along the gravel path. The Millingtons’ gardener had let the yews thicken into a dark corridor, the perfect place for kisses and intimate conversations.
Gwen’s slippers made the smallest of sounds, like secrets agreeing to be kept.
Eighty… Eighty-one…
A low-pitched man’s voice said, “No one comes this way.”
“We must make haste,” a woman breathed, thrilled but cautious.
Gwen turned the corner and froze.
A gentleman stood with a lady backed against a stone balustrade, his gloved hand cupping her cheek, his head bent, his mouth so near hers that even the night seemed to hold still. He wore no mask, and the face he showed to the darkness was perfectly, incontrovertibly familiar.
Victor Stephens, the Duke of Greystone.
Her pulse stumbled.
