Prologue
London, England 1870
“I volunteer to lead the planning of the Christmas ball.” Frances Melbourne’s breath hitched even as the words left her mouth. What was she thinking? She held back the urge to slap a hand over her mouth to prevent anything else untoward from escaping.
The shock on the familiar faces of The Mayfair Literary League members confirmed how out of character her offer was.
Yet a tiny voice somewhere deep inside her rejoiced. That part of her danced with glee that she was doing something so bold for a shy wallflower who’d already seen six unsuccessful Seasons and could only stammer when asked to dance.
Was this the moment that would change everything? That would help to fix the broken part of her that made her so timid and allow her to claim her future?
Doubtful. That brief flicker of excitement was snuffed out as if it had never been. As if damp fingers reached forward to end the warm glow before it could take hold and light the way.
It had been too much to hope that the voice—one of reason and practicality—would remain silent. After all, it was her constant companion, insisting on protecting her even when she longed to shrug off its endless dire warnings and overcome her shyness.
“That is if you all agree to aid me,” Frances quickly added. There. Surely that would quiet the cries of alarm in her mind that demanded she withdraw her offer.
“Frances, that is very generous of you,” Phoebe Stanhope, the Countess of Bolton and fearless founder of the group said. “Are you certain?” Her dark brow crinkled with worry.
This was it—the moment when she could renege with no harm to anyone.
Only to herself.
Frances straightened, gathering her courage, though the attempt felt fruitless, like reaching for autumn leaves dancing in the wind.
She would wrestle with her courage later. For now, it was enough to pretend to have it.
The league had recently visited a workhouse, and the memory of the hopeless expressions of those inside filled her mind. It was a stark reminder of how important the ball, which would be a fundraiser to aid them, was. Her worries and fears were minor compared to those poor souls.
“Absolutely.” Frances cleared her throat and ignored the nerves that pricked her stomach. “My mother will be pleased to assist us as well.” She glanced at her friend, Lady Harriet Persimmons, out of the corner of her eye, and a hot wave of remorse and embarrassment flooded her. “I need something with which to occupy myself.”
To think she’d been so caught up with what—or rather, who—she thought she wanted, that she’d nearly lost Harriet’s friendship continued to fill her with dismay. Frances’ actions during her family’s house party a few months ago had been incredibly selfish.
She had mistakenly thought her affections were caught by Viscount Joseph Garland because of a small act of kindness he’d shown her. She’d been so convinced he was the one for her that she’d ignored not only her true feelings but Harriet’s as well.
A mix of sympathy and what appeared to be regret took over Harriet’s expression. “Frances—”
“No need to say anything, Harriet.” Frances shook her head. She was happy her friend had found love with Viscount Garland. Thrilled, in fact. She couldn’t wait until they announced their betrothal, which would surely come by the end of the year.
Yet somehow, the joy that claimed three of her friends and fellow league members after they’d made a bold move toward their secret tendre made Frances feel all the lonelier, not to mention hopeless.
It was clear the For Better or Worse agenda that Phoebe had proposed to the book club last spring wasn’t for her. Taking action to catch a gentleman’s eye and help him see her in a different light had nearly cost Frances a dear friend.
And she feared her determination to pursue Viscount Garland had cost her a chance with the man who might truly be perfect for her. The news of Thomas Sinclair’s departure to America had been another blow from which she had yet to recover.
He had also been at the house party. His patience each time he’d spoken with her, along with his kindness, had won her friendship. Only too late had she realized her feelings went beyond that.
Suddenly aware of the group’s attention, Frances added, “All is well. Truly.” She forced a smile. “But I should like to have a task to keep me busy for a time.”
The original members of the league nodded in understanding but the newest members, Lady Eliza Chadwick and Mrs. Rebecca Hatch, were obviously confused by what she’d said. They would hear the story soon enough, but not today and not from Frances.
“Very well.” Phoebe looked around the group. “Frances will manage the ball with our help.”
The conversation continued around her, allowing Frances’ thoughts to drift. The months ahead felt so empty without a chance to see Thomas to fill them. Planning a charity ball would help ease the ache of loneliness inside her.
And if there was any chance of learning to overcome the debilitating shyness she experienced when speaking with gentlemen who weren’t family members, she would latch onto it with both hands.
Having a mission would help the weeks ahead to pass quickly. By the time the holidays were over, surely the ache in her heart would ease.
