Poppy straightened in her chair, her blue eyes bright with mischief. “We have, haven’t we?” She sighed. “Perhaps we ought to start our own Society. For Resourceful Young Ladies Who’ve Had Quite Enough.”
Georgie grinned. “I would join straightaway.”
Beatrix regarded them both with a considering expression before finally conceding, “If we’re forming a society, I should like to be prime minister.”
“Very well,” Georgie agreed, “then I shall be your Lady Chancellor.”
“And I suppose I can be the Chancellor of the Exchequer,” said Poppy. “Heaven knows I have plenty of experience managing the deplorable state of Mother’s coffers.”
They all laughed again, the sound less brittle this time, more genuine.
Georgie felt a warmth in her chest that hadn’t been there earlier in the evening. For the first time in what felt like weeks, she didn’t feel entirely alone.
Then…footsteps coming closer.
The laughter died instantly. All three froze, eyes darting to the door. Georgie’s heart leapt into her throat as she listened for the unmistakable sound of a cane tapping against the marble floor outside. She shuddered. Was it Henderville?
Beatrix’s gaze narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That could be Nicholas Archer,” she nearly growled under her breath.
Poppy groaned, burying her face in her hands again. “Oh no. Mama’s probably looking for me to introduce her to the footman she was flirting with.”
Georgie swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. Her reprieve was over. Any moment now, the door could open, and she’d have to paste that polite smile back on her face and endure Henderville’s clammy hand on her elbow.
But when she glanced at the other two young ladies, she found herself squaring her shoulders instead. Something about their presence, about knowing she wasn’t the only one trapped in this glittering prison, made her a little braver.
She adjusted her gloves, lifted her chin, and turned to them with a faint smile. Suddenly, the idea they’d laughed about seconds earlier seemed like quite a fine idea instead. “Are we not the Resourceful Young Ladies Who’ve Had Quite Enough?” she intoned, squaring her shoulders.
Poppy lifted her gloved hand high in the air. “I’m in.”
Beatrix’s lip curled as she lifted her hand too. “So am I.”
“I am as well,” Georgie said, lifting her hand to mimic theirs. And then they all lowered their hands into a circle and touched them one atop the other, palms down.
“We hereby institute the official Society of Resourceful Young Ladies Who’ve Had Quite Enough,” Beatrix said in a firm voice.
“Very well. Ladies?” Georgie asked, swallowing and steeling herself against what lay on the other side of the door. “Shall we?”
Beatrix nodded, her expression one of unshakable determination. Poppy looked a bit nervous but straightened nonetheless, smoothing her green skirts.
Together, they marched to the door one after another.
Georgie paused with her hand on the knob, feeling their shared strength like a spark between them. Whatever waited on the other side—lecherous fiancés, smug MPs, scandalous mothers—they would face it.
But not alone.
She pushed the door open, and the three of them stepped out into the guest-filled corridor, their heads high, their hearts steeled, and the faintest hint of rebellion glinting in their eyes.
Chapter Two
Lord Jason Pemberton, the Earl of Pembroke, did not belong here.
The mirrored ballroom of Willoughby House glittered with the light of a thousand candles burning in the chandeliers that hung high above the ballroom. The air smelled of perfume and sweat and everywhere he looked he saw painted smiles hiding calculating eyes.
He should have been in his club. Or, better yet, at Pembroke Court, a hundred miles from London and all its conniving matrons and simpering innocents.
But here he was, smashed in among the lot of them. Not because he desired to be here. Never that.
He was here because he owed Chadwick.
