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From her seat against the wall, Vangie risked a peek at the tall, striking man relaxing against the ballroom’s doorframe. He spoke to Lady Fitz... Fitz... She squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. Popping them open, she grinned. Fitzwilly. That was her name, Lady Fitzwilly.

Even from across the room, he oozed power—and something else; something difficult to define. What, precisely, was it? Danger? No, that wasn’t right.

Waving her ivory fan, Vangie peered over its silver lace edge.

Arrogance? Mmm, perhaps a mite.

Confidence? Oh, most assuredly.

But that still wasn’t quite accurate. She scrunched her eyebrows together.

What was it?

His gaze prowled the room, and Vangie’s breath caught. Her fan fluttered to a stop.

Anger. He exuded rigidly controlled fury.

She’d noticed him almost the moment he entered. Her partner was leading her to the other assembled dancers, and something compelled her to glance over her shoulder. There he loomed like a panther against the door: Sinewy body tense. Piercing eyes alert. Poised, ready to spring on his unsuspecting victim.

She’d shaken her head, and scolded herself. Stop your fanciful imaginations Evangeline Caruthers.

Boredom carved across the planes of his somber face, the panther had stood there several minutes now, burnished brown hair curled lazily over his ears and cravat. Except for his pristine white shirt and neckcloth, he was attired in black without a jot of adornment. One might think he was in mourning. Still she decided with the merest angling of her head, the starkness suited him.

She didn’t recognize the man. However, she’d not been in London two full months yet. Though nearly twenty, this was her first—her only—Season. Her social circle wasn’t as extensive as other young women’s, and it wasn’t likely to increase. The simple truth was, she hadn’t taken during her Coming Out. The knowledge no longer caused her the twinge it had a few weeks ago.

She glanced at her gown, fingering the delicate overskirt embroidered with pearls and silver rosettes. Uncle Gideon, her step-aunt Adélaid, and dear younger cousin Yvette, had been most generous. Except for their benevolence, she’d have had no appropriate clothing or acceptable company to attend such extravagant gatherings.

Not that she cared overly much about such twaddle. Large crowds unnerved her, although she’d become adept at concealing her unease—much like she’d hidden her naive hope of acquiring a loving husband this Season. That dream had been soundly dashed. Though a Romani princess, the Beau Monde deemed her an undesirable.

No, I’ll not think of it.

Pressing her lips together, she straightened her spine. Romani were resourceful and resilient. She’d find a position as a governess; away from London, of course. She could always escape to her Roma relatives too. She rather preferred that idea.

Anything was better than returning to Great Uncle Percival and Great Aunt Eugenia’s household. Though they weren’t her legal guardians, the stipulations of her father’s will had required she live with them for the past thirteen intolerable years.

Vangie could endure their oppression no longer.

She swept her gaze over the teeming room then faltered. Oh, blast and bother. Snapping the fan shut, she clasped and unclasped her hands around its elaborately-carved handle. Disquiet tripped across her nerves. A gaudily-attired lord plodded in her direction, and she’d no doubt he intended to request the next dance.

She shuddered in revulsion. Last time they’d danced, she’d resorted to holding her breath and sucking in slight puffs of air. His stench rivaled a beggar’s. That gentleman—who was he again?—Lord Pickles something or other, was too bold by far in his attentions. When he wasn’t making suggestive innuendos or appalling propositions, he took advantage of the waltzes to slyly grope her.

Once more, Vangie drew her eyebrows together. At least Lord Pickles hadn’t been as forward as that awful duke. Who was he again? Lord Farnswort? No, his name started with a P. Didn’t it?

Parlington? Passenberry? Pippleworth?

Dash it all. Ever since she’d begun having headaches as a child, remembering names had challenged her. And in recent weeks, she’d been introduced to a multitude of new people. She couldn’t begin to recall even a fraction of their names. Meeting so many pretentious members of Society overwhelmed her, to say the least.

She might’ve forgotten the duke’s name, but she couldn’t forget his deplorable behavior. He’d pinned her against the terrace balustrade, planting disgusting, slobbery kisses over her face and neck, while pawing at her breasts. Why, if that young gentleman hadn’t come upon them, and demanded the duke release her, she’d have been forced to defend herself with the dagger she kept sheathed on her leg.

What a bumblebroth that would’ve caused. She slanted her lips upward at the thought then thinned them into a serious line when reality pricked her. Had she dared to use the blade on the duke, the outcome from such a coil was far from certain. Though the daughter of a baronet, her Romani blood would trump any blueblood running through her veins.

That flaw weighed heavily against her, and no doubt the scale would’ve tilted in the duke’s favor. How fortuitous for them both that his assault had been interrupted. Vangie had darted inside the moment she was freed, not even pausing to thank her rescuer.

Who was he? Had they ever been introduced?

Her gaze traveled around the crowded room once more. Neither he nor the duke appeared to be in attendance this evening. Come to think of it, she’d not seen either since that awful night, weeks ago. Blowing out a gusty sigh, she wished she dared to out the lecherous lords. Oafish pigs. As if she’d ever enter into an illicit arrangement, Roma blood or not.

Fear of social retribution prevented her from informing her hostesses of the boorish behavior of several gentlemen, including Lord Pickles and the nameless duke. Already more than one lady of quality had given her the cut-indirect, a few the cut-sublime. No doubt that, too, was a consequence of her heritage.