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Well.

It seemed some gentlemen didn’t think that Bea was too disgusting to marry anyone but a butcher.

“Certainly. Would you please escort me to Lady Alcon?” she asked. She had a strong feeling that her eyes were shining.

“Now that’s a waste of time,” he said, mock-grumpily.

They were making their way around the edge of the ballroom when she realized Regina, Martha, Prudence, and Petunia were strolling toward them, Martha’s and Regina’s arms wreathed around each other. As their eyes met, Regina’s smile widened, and she waved.

Bea’s heart began thumping in her ears.

“Friends of yours ahead,” Lord Argyle said. “Would you like to greet them? I should find my partner for the next dance. I am looking forward to supper.”

“As am I,” Bea said, gulping. “I think I’d better … Excuse me.”

With that she dashed away, intent on putting as many bodies as possible between herself and Regina.

Bea could have given lessons in the Art of Survival to all the wallflowers who would follow her into this miserable farce called the marriage market. More precisely, she could teach the skill of fleeing to the ladies’ retiring room at any and all opportunities. Hiding was her forté.

Week One would cover the locations of ladies’ retiring rooms, their size, how to reach them quickly in an emergency, and what kinds of errands would lead the attending maid to vacate the room for at least twenty minutes so that tears could be shed in private. She might offer a side-lesson in Avoiding Tears.

Week Two would teach the art of delicately, yet thoroughly, ripping one’s own hem. A ruffle parted from a gown easily if threads had been loosened by its owner in the carriage. A significant rip might allow one to cozily hide away for as long as an hour while a maid stitched your gown back together.

Week Three would address the cheerful, evasive conversation necessitated by the arrival in the retiring room of ladies whose bodices had been torn by male hands, or who were dashing for a chamber pot. This week would also address female complaints of all kinds.

Bea was so caught up in her instructional plans—the attending maid having escorted a nauseated lady away a good ten minutes ago—that she didn’t immediately react when the door to the retiring room opened.

By the time she raised her head, they were already in the room.

Clustering around her.

Heart racing, Bea jumped to her feet. The four of them stood in a semi-circle before her, shoulder to shoulder. She couldn’t flee.

“Tubby Bea,” Lady Regina said, baring her shining teeth. “I knew you’d be in here. Having a little meal, are you? Too hungry to wait until supper is called?”

“Lady Regina,” Bea said, bobbing a curtsy. She forced herself to keep her chin up and meet each of their eyes. “Miss Prudence, Lady Martha, Miss Petunia.”

“Martha should have been acknowledged before Prudence,” Regina said with a shrill laugh. “You really mustn’t act like such a boor. In more ways than one, obviously.”

“Bovine is the word you’re looking for,” Martha said pleasantly.

You’d think Bea would be used to it by now, but somehow, she wasn’t. Her heart threatened to pound itself out of her chest. “You’re so humorous,” she murmured, and took a step forward.

The girls didn’t budge. It was amazing how impenetrable they were, given that their bodies were no more solid than willow boughs wrapped in gauze.

“Ew, crumbs,” Prudence said, rubbing her toe on the carpet. “I suppose you concealed cake under that gunnysack you’re wearing and then snuck off to gobble it in private.”

Bea took a breath. She hadn’t dared to eat anything outside her house since the first week of the Season, since the moment this group of girls chose her as their … their plaything. Their target.

Just at the moment, she was in the grip of such a vivid sense of dread that it was all she could do to stay on her feet.

She backed away until she reached the wall. The solid feeling of it was comforting, because she was still missing a hank of hair in the back, lost to a “slip of the fingers” after Prudence Massinger pulled a pair of embroidery scissors from her reticule.

“I won’t keep you,” Bea said, hating the sound of her own voice. She sounded so—so pitiful. Weak.

“I think you should get down on your hands and knees and pick up all those crumbs,” Regina said.

“There are no crumbs,” Bea said, keeping her eyes on Regina’s face. She had learned that lesson. Regina might say the most appalling things, but she wouldn’t elbow her “accidentally” if Bea was looking directly at her.