Chapter One
“They are going to find out. They are absolutely going to find out, and Genevieve, when they do, my life shall not be worth?—”
“Phoebe, for goodness’ sake, take a breath.”
Lady Phoebe Tripleton, the timid and meek youngest daughter of the Earl of Tripleton, stared back with wide eyes at her cousin, and best friend, Lady Genevieve Langley. She knew that her fear would be illuminated by the lantern hanging above them in the swaying carriage which conveyed them from one side of the town to the other.
Through the dark, London streets, they rattled beneath the cover of night. Despite Phoebe’s nerves, the shadows made her feel less conspicuous.
“I know,” she sighed. “I know I am worrying too much, but it is not for nothing, Gen.”
“How do you know?” Her cousin’s blue eyes glittered in the lamplight. “What if you get everything you have ever wished for?”
A little self-deprecating, Phoebe laughed. “When have I have ever deserved such a thing?”
“You always have,” her friend swore. “Your parents just… they were not forthcoming with that sort of praise.”
“That is one way to put it,” Phoebe muttered. “Nonetheless, I am still excited.”
“Good,” Genevieve huffed. “As you should be! You deserve tonight! This one, singular, glimmering moment for yourself. Do not forget that, after tonight, you shall be the soon-to-be?—”
“Donotremind me,” Phoebe cut her off in a murmur, pressing her thumb and forefinger to her temples. “Please, do not.”
“Actually, I think you need such a reminder,” Genevieve laughed. She could afford to be light, and bright, and everything that Phoebe was not; at least not yet, and perhaps might never be. “For you will be the future Marchioness of Birchwood.”
“Gen,” Phoebe whispered in a tight, strained voice.
“I am only saying that this, what we’re doing tonight, is what you need, and I am honored to be the one escorting you.”
The ladies had been carefully guarding their words for good reason. No one could find out about the masquerade ball. The dance was set to commence at an exceptionally late hour, and those who had been invited were sworn to secrecy.
When Phoebe first received her own invitation, she was astounded. She had no reason to think she might be offered a spot at this coveted soiree. But then, she grew to appreciate the invitation for the gift it was.
This event would grant Phoebe one last night of freedom before she did indeed have to force herself to look towards her future.
I shall be the Marchioness of Birchwood.
“I just did not expect that a night to myself meant this,” Phoebe fiddled with the folds of her dress nervously, unable to shake her worry and doubt. “Heavens, Genevieve, you are taking me to the most notorious and scandalous party in all of theton, one that hides in the darkness. That speaks loudly, doesn’t it?”
Her cousin flashed her a smirk. “And that is precisely why you must attend with me. You have been hidden from thetonfor too long. And I cannot allow you to hide away forever. By the end of this Season, you will marry Birchwood, but before that happens, you must have an experience—thisexperience.”
Phoebe shook her head gently. She was amazed at Genevieve’s behavior.
“What will people say when we arrive at the ball without any chaperones?” She arched an eyebrow at her cousin and waited for a response.
Genevieve laughed nonchalantly. “What can they say? We were invited. Our parents were not. The matter is very simple.”
Knowing she ought to be fortified by this reassurance, Phoebe tried to stop fussing with her dress or ease the twisting sensation in her stomach, but both nervous habits persisted.
“I do not think we are behaving prudently.” The carriage bounced slightly, jostling Phoebe closer to the door. She pressed one gloved hand to the wall and inhaled sharply.
Geneveive nearly toppled right out of her seat, but her zeal was not shaken. “Breathe, Phoebe. Just take a slow, deep breath. We shall be there in no time and…”
“No.” Phoebe argued, suddenly sure she must do something to squash their momentum and encourage her cousin to have the driver turn the carriage around at the next bend of the road. “We should not be going to a…” She paused and lowered her voice so that the next word was hardly audible. “…masquerade.”
“Ha!” Genevieve laughed lightly. “Lord Spencer invited us himself.” She pulled her invitation from her reticule and held up the piece of creamy white parchment that was outlined in a faint silvery trim. “You know he famously only invites the upper crust. We should feel honored to be amongst those His Lordship selected to attend.”
“I am honored,” Phoebe barely managed to utter as her stomach gave another anxious lurch. “But…”
