Nausea surged, and Polly wished for the ground beneath her feet to open up and swallow her whole. The earth tremored; for a feverish instant, she thought her prayer had been granted. But no, it was merely the approach of newcomers on the other side of the leafy partition. She knew she should make her escape, yet her limbs remained paralyzed.
Severton’s voice went from haughty to toadying. “I say, well met, Lord Revelstoke.”
Despite her tumultuous state, Polly started at the name. What was the Earl of Revelstoke doing here? According to her sister Rosie, an expert intongossip, he was the most eligible bachelor in London, despite his marked disdain for polite society. It was a strange social paradox that the less he cared about the opinions of others, the more they revered him. Wherever he went, it was said that ladies pursued him and gentlemen wanted tobehim.
In other words, Revelstoke was the polar opposite of Polly. He topped the social ladder whilst her place was on the bottom rung. In the special section reserved for feather-wits who deluded themselves into thinking that they could win a gentleman’s love… when all they’d ever have was his scorn. Her throat swelled.How could I have been so stupid?
“Gentlemen.” Revelstoke’s deep, gravelly voice was impatient. “I believe you know Lady Langley?”
Hasty greetings followed, to which a languid female voice replied, “The Kitburns ought to be congratulated on their consistency, if not talent. Their affairs are always the biggest bore.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Which is why we’ve had to concoct our own amusement,” Severton said smugly. “A little wager, if you will.”
“Oh, do tell,” Lady Langley said.
Within her gloves, Polly’s hands grew clammy.
“Severton,” Lord Brockhurst said in warning tones.
“Don’t be modest, Brockhurst. You won, after all. You succeeded in luring the most awkward chit of the Season into the garden and getting a kiss from her,” Severton gloated.
“Hownaughty, Lord Brockhurst.” Lady Langley’s sultry laugh belied her reprimand. “With such exploits, you may give the God of Revelry here a run for his money.”
“What do you say, Revelstoke?” Lord Eghart said eagerly. “Prime prank, eh?”
There was a pause, as if everyone was awaiting the earl’s judgement on the matter of Polly’s humiliation. Her fingers curled; her breath stuck in her throat.
“You’d do as well to kick a half-dead mongrel.” Revelstoke’s voice dripped with contempt. “Seducing a wallflower—what’s the sport in that?”
The words branded themselves on Polly’s brain, waves of pain and anger scorching through her. To be compared to a mongrel—ahalf-deadone—was the final straw. Revelstoke had reduced her shattered hopes to naught butsport… and not even a worthy competition at that. Right then, she didn’t give a damn if he was the most popular rake in all of Christendom—shehatedhim. Despised the earl and his ilk with every part of her shamed and bleeding soul.
If only I could hate Lord Brockhurst, too.A sob rose suddenly in her throat; she pressed both hands over her mouth to contain it.
Lady Langley purred into the tense silence, “You have no interest in virgins, darling?”
“If I did, would I be with you tonight?” came Revelstoke’s cool reply.
The ensuing titters and guffaws finally penetrated Polly’s shock. She jerked back from the hedge. Cheeks wet, clutching her red ribbon, she dashed out of the maze, leaving the ashes of her dreams behind.
Chapter One
A year later
As the carriage passed through the ironwork gates, Polly peered out the window. The rolling lawns and flowering hedges were pristine, stately elms lining the drive that led toward the main house. Fluffy clouds decorated the blue sky. If Mrs. Barlow’s property had been the subject of a painting, Polly mused, it could have been entitledPastoral Picturesque—as long as one didn’t know about the purpose of the establishment.
“Isn’t this placeperfect? It’s exactly as I imagined it.”
At the bright tones, Polly turned from the window and smiled at Primrose, who occupied the squabs next to her. Known as Rosie to intimates, the beautiful blonde was two-and-twenty, the age Polly would be in two weeks’ time. Although the girls were as different as night and day in looks and temperament, they were bosom companions and sisters in spirit—and nearly in blood, too, for Rosie’s mama was wed to Polly’s eldest brother Ambrose.
“I wasn’t certain how a madhouse would look,” Polly said honestly.
“Mrs. Barlow’s isn’t a madhouse, silly—it’s aretreat,” Rosie corrected. “Thecrème de la crèmecome here to take the waters. Why, with its Roman springs, it’s practically a spa.”
Despite the rather euphemistic description, Polly saw that the blonde’s sunny aura was muddied by swirling nervousness. Polly exchanged a look with her older sister Dorothea, the carriage’s third occupant and the girls’ chaperone for the outing. Thea, whose glow was the soft, comforting white of fresh linens, regarded Rosie with gentle eyes.
“Having second thoughts about this visit, dear?” she said.
“Perhaps.” Sighing, Rosie said, “I wish I had your charitable natures. You’re both so kind to everyone. And Polly—you’re a natural with those foundlings of yours.”
