Chapter 1
1814 – Lord Bamber’s Masquerade Ball, London
Of all the nights for Charlotte to end up disgracefully, unintentionally foxed, it had to be at the grandest masked ball to mark the end of the Season. Naturally.
Her black-and-buttercup striped gown, cinched with a high-waisted sash, and her silk gloves had been specially dyed for the animal-themed affair. Sheer wings, fastened rather optimistically between her shoulders, completed the effect. She had chosen her favourite creature—the bee—without realising the colours clashed most unflatteringly with her complexion. Fashion, after all, had never been her strong suit.
It was the worst possible moment to be in her cups, and yet there she was, twirling through Lord Bamber’s glittering ballroom like a disoriented bumblebee.
Blast her sisters for lacing her lemonade with spirits. She had noticed an odd aftertaste but, not wishing to appear ungracious, assumed the lemons were simply overripe and drank the whole glass out of politeness. Only later, as a peculiar fuzz settled behind her eyes and her limbs grew light, did suspicion bloom.And when she caught her sisters sniggering behind their feathered fans, the truth became painfully clear.
Now—much too late—she regretted both her creative enthusiasm for the garishly bright gown, which turned her stomach in the most unladylike fashion, and her naïveté in trusting her sisters with her lemonade.
They had done it deliberately, hoping she would humiliate herself before the entire ton. Of course they had. She could practically feel their smug smiles boring into her from across the floor.
Even the smallest amount of spirits sent her swiftly into catastrophe, which was why she took such care to avoid it altogether—and why they took such obvious pleasure in the possibility of her failure now.
They had never quite forgiven her for Papa’s favour. Whilst her sisters concerned themselves with ribbons, dancing masters, and admiring glances, Charlotte had been the child trailing after her father with a book beneath one arm and mud on her boots, eager to hear his stories and accompany him on long rides. As girls, they had formed their own neat little alliance, and Charlotte had always remained awkwardly outside it.
As they grew older, their methods only improved: whispers, snubs, carefully engineered embarrassments delivered with smiling precision.
And Mama? Mama saw nothing. Or worse, chose not to.
Charlotte had endured their games for years. But this—this was a new depth of mischief, even for them. To sabotage her at the most prestigious ball of the Season. Thank heavens it was masked.
May their porcelain skin turn coarse, she thought uncharitably.
When she encountered them again this evening, they would receive the full force of her tongue—just as soon as the tinglingnumbness in her lips and mouth subsided enough to form coherent words.
It always started this way: tingling, then warmth—and now... spinning. She teetered on her silk pumps. Was the room tilting, or was it her? She truly could not tell.
Her elderly partner spun her across the chequered marble floor, chandeliers blurring into streaks of firelight above. The violins swelled and warped in her ears, while perfume and candle wax overwhelmed her senses.
The world lurched—and her awareness snapped painfully back to the gentleman standing far too close. The smell of stale drink and sweat hit her at once, and she fought valiantly to keep her supper where it belonged. A hiccup escaped. Then another.
Oh dear.
She clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a third, but a strangled squeal burst forth instead. Heads turned. She had to get out. The heat, the stink, the noise—she simply could not bear it.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked, smiling as he revealed several missing teeth.
She had not the faintest idea who he was.
And yet she was suddenly possessed by the absurd urge to stroke his sheep-wool head covering.
Charlotte clenched her free hand to prevent herself from doing so and tried to say nothing—but failed. Alcohol always made her entirely too truthful. ‘Your body odour is making me feel nauseous, sir.’
Oh no. I actually said it. Out loud.
Horrified, and maddeningly on the verge of laughter, she stumbled back.
The gentleman’s eyes widened behind the woolly mask; he dropped her hand at once.
Charlotte turned and fled before she could do further damage—though not before his damning cry rang out across the floor:
‘What a rude girl!’
She all but sprinted past several ladies tittering behind their fans.
