CHAPTER 1
“Have you heard?” Mrs. Linton’s fan stilled mid-wave. “The Duke of Wrexford is expected to attend tonight. I can’t imagine how he dares to show his face after that article.”
The words sliced neatly through the hum of the ballroom.
Beatrice, standing a half-step behind her mother, felt the ripple more than she saw it.
“Indeed,” Lady Moreland said, her voice even. “One might imagine theGazettenever tires of finding scandal.” She folded her fan with deliberate grace. Her dark hair was swept high, her profile a familiar portrait of composure. She wore the countess’s stoicism as easily as her gloves.
Mrs. Harcourt, who never missed a scandal, leaned in. “They say that Miss Verity called him anobleman’s failure of restraint.How perfectly wicked!”
A wave of laughter rippled through the circle.
“I rather think she was generous,” said another. “If half the stories about Wrexford are true, restraint has never been his problem.”
Beatrice watched as Cecily leaned forward on tiptoe, her fan fluttering like a restless bird. Her sister’s eyes sparkled with curiosity.
Cecily had always been the sunshine of the Moreland family, impossible to ignore even when Beatrice tried. While Beatrice measured her words, her sister let hers tumble out bright and unchecked, as if the world existed purely to be delighted by her observations.
“Do you think he’ll actually come?” Cecily whispered, barely containing herself.
Lady Moreland’s eyes cooled a fraction. “Cecily.”
“Only a question, Mama.”
“With his status?” Mrs. Linton scoffed indignantly. “A man who has been dissected in print will scarcely wish to relive the experience under eight hundred eyes.”
Lady Moreland inclined her head politely to Mrs. Linton. “Some people thrive on notoriety. The wiser sort avoid it.”
Beatrice said nothing. Her fan was motionless in her hand, her expression mild and attentive. Only her pulse betrayed her.
Every mention of that name—Miss Verity—sent a pang through her chest. She kept her expression serene, though her thoughts tripped over each other. There was something about the half-mocking, half-admiring tone in which they said it that made her uneasy.
A nobleman’s failure of restraint.
Mrs. Harcourt sighed. “Whoever she is, she has courage. Wrexford is not a man I’d choose to provoke.”
“Courage?” Lady Moreland murmured. “I call it foolishness. A lady’s reputation can be ruined in a breath. No anonymous pen can save her from that.”
Beatrice’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around her fan. “Perhaps that’s why she hides her name,” she said before she could stop herself.
The group went still for a moment, startled by the hint of opinion.
Lady Moreland turned her head slightly, the movement elegant but sharp. “My dear, ladies who have nothing to conceal do not speak in riddles.”
Beatrice bowed her head in apology. “Of course, Mama.”
The conversation shifted again, but Beatrice’s cheeks were warm. She forced her gaze toward the dance floor, feigning interest in the couples forming there.
Cecily’s fan snapped open in delight, and she whispered behind it, “Anobleman’s failure of restraint!I must remember that for later.”
Beatrice gave her a sideways glance. “You repeat everything you hear.”
“And you repeat nothing, which makes you intolerably dull,” Cecily countered cheerfully. “Don’t you think it’s marvelous that someone dares to write such things? I should like to meet this Miss Verity.”
“You would only gossip with her.”
“Of course. What else is one supposed to do with courage if not turn it into conversation?”
