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This afternoon, she wore one of the many new gowns Everleigh and Griffin had insisted that, as a debutante, Rayne required for her Season. Her arguments that she was two-and-twenty and well past the age for a formal come out hadn’t dissuaded either in the slightest. She’d welcomed her introduction to le beau monde with as much enthusiasm as having acquired a large carbuncle on her bottom or an oozing blister upon her upper lip.

The same ability that enabled her to mask her fear of men also aided her in donning a pleasant mien at social functions. Not even her closest friends knew the whole ugly truth—just bits and buttons.

None except Everleigh.

The others knew enough to understand why she behaved as she did at times.

Allowing a budding smile, Rayne ran a gloved hand over her skirt.

This ivory-and-pink-striped gown was truly lovely, and despite her qualms, she appreciated the exquisite frock. The blush-colored spencer—the exact same shade of pink as the gown’s stripes—was made of the softest velvet Rayne had ever felt. Naturally, her white kid half boots, pink gloves, and silk bonnet with its plethora of pink-and-white silk flowers enhanced the ensemble.

To be perfectly frank, she felt rather like a dressed-up doll on display. This gorgeous costume drew unsolicited attention to her.

How could it not?

Of the latest style and sewn by Mademoiselle Franciose Beauchêne, one of London’s most exclusive modistes, the becoming garment was meant to be precisely what it was—a beacon of fashion. A calling card and advertisement for Mademoiselle Beauchêne.

Regardless, Rayne longed for a plain gown that she didn’t have to worry about soiling or tearing. Just as she yearned for the peace and quiet of the neighboring gardens. Gardens which—most tiresomely—were now off-limits to her unless she brought a maid and a footman along.

And dragging bored servants with her defeated the very purpose in seeking a solitary place.

“You’re awfully quiet today, Rayne.” Gabriella peered at her from beneath the brim of a fetching yellow-and-peach bonnet. “Are you quite well?”

A small crease between her eyebrows revealed her genuine concern.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Ophelia piped in as she looped her hand through Rayne’s elbow. Winged eyebrows raised questioningly, she nudged Rayne gently in the ribs.

No surprise there. Gabriella and Ophelia were twins and frequently not only voiced the same thoughts but finished each other’s sentences.

“I’m perfectly fine.” Rayne tilted her mouth into a bright, if somewhat forced, smile. “I’ve just been thinking about Nicolette.” She had been—sort of. Before her mind had taken her down several rabbit trails. “I’m so very pleased for her.”

A chorus of agreements echoed her declaration.

Ophelia grinned as she leaned into Rayne’s shoulder. “Who do you think will be next?”

“Next?” Rayne puzzled her brow.

“Yes, goose. Next to become betrothed? Wed? Caught in the parson’s mousetrap? Leg-shackled?”

Rayne lifted a shoulder as she regarded a curious jay watching them. It couldn’t possibly be Theopolis. Could it?

“I’m sure I don’t know.” She did know, however, it would not be her. Unlike most women of her station, marriage had never been her end-all desire. “You don’t sound as if marriage is high on your list of priorities, Ophelia.”

“I haven’t met the right man, I suppose,” Ophelia said a trifle too casually. “I have no wish to be a chattel or simply marry because I fear being on the shelf or growing long in the tooth.”

All valid reasons Rayne commiserated with.

Nonetheless, their little troupe of unmarried friends was dwindling. In addition to those wedded ladies presently strolling the wide pathway near the Serpentine with her, Jessica Brentwood had recently made a match with Crispin Rolston, Duke of Bainbridge.

Perhaps Ophelia or Sophronie or their friend Justina Farthington would soon make a brilliant match as well. Eyeing Ophelia, Rayne teased, “Has any particular gentleman caught your attention?”

“Me?” Ophelia scoffed and elevated her chin in a rather mutinous fashion. “Certainly not. You know how restricted my life with my grandparents was in Colchester. I have no intention of relinquishing my freedom—meager though it is—to a man’s dictates any time soon.”

“Married life isn’t at all restrictive if you marry for love, sister dearest.” Gabriella winked naughtily, and the married women giggled.

“Indeed, it is not,” Theadosia agreed, exchanging a pointed look with Everleigh, who returned her grin.

“I’ve found marriage to Griffin most satisfying,” Everleigh declared, her cheeks pinkening becomingly.