Josephine seemed to be all her mother could talk about—Josephine’s dress and her hair and the latest titled gentleman she’d been introduced to. And if she wasn’t boasting about Josephine, she was boasting about Caroline and her marriage to Helton. Even among the women of theton, who normally loveddiscussing courtships and menfolk, her mother’s singular focus was… off-putting, to say the least.
Melanie pursed her lips and tried to discreetly wrap her hand around her mother’s wrist. Remembering what Caroline had said, she gave it a light squeeze, but her mother paid her no mind. She continued talking at the two ladies she had trapped in conversation, laughing too loudly, gesturing wildly.
Feeling somewhat helpless, Melanie squeezed her mother’s wrist a little tighter.
A mistake.
Her mother whirled on her quite suddenly. “Melanie, that’s quite enough!” she admonished, jerking her arm out of Melanie’s hold. “What do you need?”
Melanie blinked, her lips still frozen in the vague smile she’d resorted to for the majority of the evening. She said nothing, but now Lady Varley and the baroness were looking at her too.
“Well?” her mother demanded. “What is it that you want? If you need the powder room, I dare say you’re old enough to find it yourself by now.”
Melanie could feel the heat creeping up her neck and face. “I—um, I…” But, of course, her throat closed off, leaving her mouth gaping like a landed fish.
“Speak, Melanie.” Her mother’s stern demand only locked her voice up tighter. There were too many eyes on her, the music too loud, the pressure too great.
Without a word, Melanie turned and fled. She didn’t make excuses, didn’t offer any explanation.
Her steps carried her to the edge of the ballroom, but the distance helped only slightly. She needed somewhere to collect herself.
Spotting a group of boisterous gentlemen cutting across the room, Melanie instinctively ducked behind one of the countess’stall potted plants, pressed her back against the wall, and stared up at the ceiling.
And then she silently reprimanded herself. Because this really was getting ridiculous. What was the matter with her?
A shrill voice—her mother’s—carried over the music more loudly than any other. Or perhaps it only seemed that way, thanks to Melanie’s guilty conscience.
She had tried. She really had!
If the situation weren’t so dreadful, she might find some humor in it.
But it was, in fact, dreadful, and aside from locking herself in her bedchamber and refusing to come out, Melanie had no choice but to cooperate with her family.
Whom she loved, and she knew loved her… even if they didn’t understand her at all.
In the tendays since that meeting in her father’s study, she’d felt herself retreating into an even darker silence than before. It was as if she were two people—one watching from the outside, willing the other to reach out, to reclaim the ease she once had in making friends. But the other part of her felt small, trapped by something unseen, something she couldn’t name.
And although she was putting forth her best effort, each gathering felt like a gauntlet, an onslaught of social interactions, each overwhelming her more than the one before.
And dear heavens, now she’d resorted to hiding behind a silly plant. But it didn’t feel silly. Because it provided a temporary retreat, one where she could simply take a moment and…
Breathe.
So many voices. So much talking. None of it meaning much of anything…
When two widows drifted closer, Melanie ducked lower.
“…Lady Bellwether insists she saw the duke’s carriage arrive.” A cultured voice drifted through her leafy shield.
“Now that would be the coup of the century, would it not? I hear he’s quite handsome, actually. Oh, to be young again.” The woman giggled. “She is wrong, though. He hasn’t attended a ball in years. The carriage must belong to some other lord.”
“She said it was unmarked, and all black…” The voices faded away as the ladies strolled along the edge of the room.
Normally, Melanie wouldn’t give gossip a second thought, but they were talking about a duke—a duke with a black carriage. There were fewer than a dozen dukes in London, and Melanie was personally acquainted with exactly one of them.
A duke who hadn’t attended a ball in years.
A duke who also happened to be strikingly handsome.
