Damian’s eyes glittered with malicious triumph. He grabbed Victoria’s arm and pulled her partially behind the arbor, positioning them just so—her sleeve torn, hair mussed from their struggle, him standing too close.“Do gasp when they appear, pet.”
“I am not your pet.” She tried to twist free, but his grip was firm.
The approaching guests rounded the corner, and saw Victoria, disheveled and alone with Lord Sterling in the shadows.
Victoria sensed the moment their faces shifted from surprise to scandal, watching as conclusions were drawn and judgments made in the space of a heartbeat. The witnesses, she recognized them as Mrs. Ashford and her daughter, retreated hastily, no doubt racing back to the ballroom with their news.
“Perfect,” Damian said, smoothing his hair back into place.
“You planned this.” Horror crept through Victoria’s veins. “You wanted them to see—”
“Of course I did.” He adjusted his cravat. “No woman refuses me without paying a price.”
“You have ruined me.”
“Have I?” He tilted his head, studying her with detached interest. “You should be grateful for my attention, even if it was brief. Most women would kill for a moment of my notice.”
“You are vile,” she wailed, stepping back, fighting tears.
“Perhaps.” He straightened his cuffs, every inch the unruffled gentleman once more. “Fear not, you are rid of me for I could never marry you. My family would never approve of someone so forward. Throwing yourself at me in the garden? Tearing your own dress for attention? Shocking behavior, really.”
The cruelty of it stole her breath. He was already rewriting the story, crafting a narrative that would destroy her while leaving him untouched. “No one will believe that.”
“Will they not?” His smile was cold. “A man’s word against that of a young lady found in a compromising position with a rake? I think we both know how this story ends.”
“Why?” she asked, her gaze narrowed on him.
His smile only deepened. “Send my regards to your brother, will you?”He gave her a mocking bow and strode away, leaving Victoria standing alone among the roses. Their perfume, once sweet, now felt suffocating. She looked down at her torn sleeve, at the pale blue silk that would forever be associated with her downfall. In the distance, the music from the ballroom continued, laughter and conversation flowing as if her world had not just shattered.
She sank onto a stone bench, her legs no longer able to support her weight. Tomorrow, everyone would know. Her name would be whispered behind fans, her reputation destroyed. The injustice burned in her throat.
Above her, stars continued their ancient dance, indifferent to the small tragedy that had just unfolded beneath them. Victoria pulled her torn sleeve up, trying to cover the exposed skin, and wondered how she would protect her family, and herself.
Chapter 2
A Sennight later
The afternoon light filtered weakly through the drawing room windows, illuminating threadbare patches in the Turkish carpet. When she was a child, she used to trace the carpet’s medallion with her slippers. Victoria had only noticed the carpets wear during the past sennight of confinement. She sat rigidly on the settee, its blue damask rough beneath her palms, while her mother paced before the cold hearth with the restless energy of a caged bird. Each turn of her mother’s skirts stirred dust motes that danced in the pale sunshine, and Victoria found herself counting them to avoid meeting her mother’s increasingly frantic gaze.
“Lady Pemberton crossed the street yesterday rather than acknowledge me,” her mother said, her voice high with distress. “Crossed the street, Victoria! As if I carried some contagion. Twenty years of friendship, and she looked through me as though I were air.”
Victoria’s fingers tightened on the worn fabric. She wanted to protest, to rage against the injustice of it all, but what use were words? They had already proven useless against the tide of gossip that had swept through London society.
“And this morning,” her mother continued, wringing her hands until the knuckles turned white, “I received a note from Mrs. Ashford, who claimed to witness your encounter,along with her daughter. She had the audacity to suggest that perhaps dear Margaret and Anne would benefit from a trip to the country. Indefinitely. As if my younger daughters should be punished for—” She broke off, pressing a handkerchief to her lips.
“Mama, please.” Victoria’s voice emerged rough from disuse. She had barely spoken for the past few days, finding words inadequate to express the enormity of her situation.
“Your father tried, you know.” Her mother sank into the chair opposite, its springs creaking. “He went to Lord Sterling’s father, demanded satisfaction, demanded that boy marry you. The Earl laughed…actually laughed…and said his son would never stoop to marry a girl who had thrown herself at him so desperately. He said you had torn your own dress for attention, that you had begged Lord Sterling for his kisses. That you set out to trap him.”
Heat flooded Victoria’s cheeks, shame and fury battling within her. “That is not what happened. I have told you.”
“I know what you have told me.” Her mother’s eyes, so like Victoria’s own, held sadness. “But it does not matter what truly occurred in that garden, does it? Lord Sterling’s version is the one being repeated in every drawing room in London. They say you pursued him relentlessly, that you engineered the entire scene. Some even whisper that you have done this before.”
Victoria shot to her feet, unable to remain still any longer. She moved to the window, staring out at the street where a few carriages rolled past, their occupants safe in their unblemished reputations. Not long ago, she might have been in one of those carriages, calling on friends, planning her future. Now that future had crumbled.
“There is one possibility,” her mother whispered.
Victoria turned, noting how her mother’s gaze darted to the door as if fearful of being overheard. “What do you mean?”
