Chapter 1

The loud, vibrant notes of a waltz flowed out from the musicians' corner. Bernadette narrowed her hazel-brown eyes at the pitch of the second violin. It was just slightly out of tune, and it set her teeth on edge.

He still has time to tune it between waltzes , she thought, distressed.

Bernadette had a good ear for music, her tutor had always said so, and it was not altogether a blessing. She suffered when things were out of tune, and nobody else understood what was troubling her.

She tucked a strand of brown hair behind one ear and took a breath to excuse herself.

"I'm going to go and join Viola," she told Mama softly. Mama, who was talking with Lady Cobham, didn't even turn around. Bernadette sighed inwardly.

Nobody seems to be paying me any heed at all.

Her throat tightened painfully. She hated balls, and always for the same reason—that terrible feeling of being overlooked, of seeming almost invisible. She glanced at her own hands—soft and pale, the fingers tapering yet strong from years at the pianoforte, they seemed perfectly visible. The rest of her must be likewise so. Oddly, that was reassuring. After two hours at Lady Cobham's ball, she'd been ready to swear that nobody could see her.

She turned away from her mother and Lady Cobham and went to find Viola.

"Viola?" she called softly as she rounded the refreshments table.

"Ah! Bernadette! There you are! Lovely." Viola turned around and offered Bernadette a grin.

Miss Viola Penning had thick sandy-blonde hair, dark eyes, and a thin, lively face. In a pale lavender gown, she looked beautiful. To Bernadette it seemed as though Viola was visible, whereas she herself, with brown hair and hazel eyes, blended into the rest of the room in her white gown. At twenty, Viola was three years younger than Bernadette, but her vitality probably arose from the fact that she was enjoying herself, whereas Bernadette was absolutely not. She hadn't danced once all evening, and she wasn't even sure she wanted to. She was too shy.

"I'm coming to stand here with you," Bernadette confided. "If I stand over there where the musicians are, I'm going to entirely lose my wits."

Viola laughed. "It is loud in here," she agreed.

"Not only the loudness. The pitch. That second violin has been steadily going out of tune all evening, and if he doesn't do something to remedy it soon, I shall lose my mind." Bernadette giggled distractedly.

"Is it that bad?" Viola asked. She paused, narrowing her gaze and Bernadette knew she was listening for the notes.

"It's gone too low."

"Yes!" Bernadette answered instantly, relieved. Her friend could hear it too. "Yes. It is by a semitone, at least. He has to fix it soon, or he'll be harmonizing with the part he's meant to perform."

Viola chuckled aloud. Bernadette felt her spirits lifting. With Viola, it was possible to laugh and joke and to show her true nature. But Viola was the only person she talked to like that, and she'd known her for over ten years. She got to know people too slowly.

"Harmonizing! Yes...you're probably right." Viola nodded. "You have a good ear."

"Thank you," Bernadette murmured. Viola's kind words threatened to make her cry. The ball had worn her down to the point that she had no regard for herself left. The ball, and Mama's constant bickering.

"You need to try harder," Mama always said. She had said it at luncheon just a few hours before.

"Mama..." Bernadette replied, attempting to be fair to herself. "It's not a matter of trying. I just don't seem to..."

"You need to shine more!" her mother insisted, cutting off her words abruptly. "It's your fifth Season, Bernadette! Have you no sense of regard for your parents? No sense of duty? You're the daughter of a baron, you know. You need to be respectable in society."

Bernadette felt her heart twist painfully. That was pure cruelty. She loved and respected both her parents—how could Mama not see that? It wasn't lack of love or respect that made it impossible to draw the eyes of others.

"Mama...that's unfair," she protested, but her mother interrupted her again.

"You need to get names on your dance-card! You never dance more than once or twice. And hold their eyes! You don't have enough conversation. That's what it is. You need to talk more. How can you expect to hold anyone's attention when you hide away like a timid little creature?"

Bernadette had choked back tears and, as soon as she could, had fled to her room. Mama's cruel words only made it harder to look anyone in the eye. Wherever she went, all she heard in her own mind was the things her mother called her.

Timid mouse, plain, uninteresting .

The words felt like ragged clothing that covered her wherever she went.

"It's too hot," Viola commented, bringing her attention to the present.

"It is," Bernadette agreed. They were standing next to the refreshments table, and she reached over to accept a glass of cool lemonade from the footman working behind it. "Thank you," she murmured politely.

"Of course, my lady." The footman beamed. Footmen and other servants always seemed to notice Bernadette—she noticed them, too, where most others overlooked them too.

"I'm too hot," Viola sighed, fanning herself with one hand. "I'm going to go and stand over there by the window. If there's a breeze I might go outside."

Bernadette glanced over to the window that Viola had indicated and shrank away from it nervously. Men in velvet jackets, their white hose tight over muscled calves, were standing there talking, their smiles bright and their voices loud. The sound of their banter and laughter made her soul shrink. Groups of people of all sorts, but particularly of young men her own age, terrified her. She never knew what to say or do when she was confronted with one, and she ended up stuttering and blushing and wishing she really was invisible after all.

"I'll stay here," she said quickly. "And see if the violinist notices how out-of-tune he's becoming."

Viola grinned. "I'll be back to hear from you if he has."

Viola walked easily towards the doors, drifting among the guests, smiling and laughing as she went. Within a few seconds, she was standing in the doorway with the young men, laughing. Bernadette looked away, feeling sad. Viola seemed to have some gift she lacked, but what gift that might be, she didn't know.

Maybe I'm just plain, she thought sadly.

Her mother had said often enough that she needed to take special care with her appearance, being less showy—Mama's words—than other young ladies. Mama insisted on the newest, most fashionable gowns they could afford, saying that Bernadette needed them to "shed some light on her". Her stomach twisted nauseously at the thought. If bright scarlet silk gowns were necessary to make someone look at her, she must truly be almost invisible.

She stepped back into the corner, watching the people dancing distantly, as if she was someone—a footman or a cleaner—watching the ball without being any part of it. As she stood there, the music of the waltz began to jar on her ears.

That violin is still out of tune, she thought, grinning a little desperately. Surely, the violinist couldn't be so oblivious. As she grinned, Sir Ambrose—leaning on the wall, already more than a little sunk in brandy—spotted her.

No. Please, don't let him see me.

She felt her stomach twist. Sir Ambrose sneaked onto Lady Cobham's guest-list every year, primarily because he was a cousin of hers. He drank all the brandy and thereafter proceeded to talk to anyone who managed to catch his gaze. Especially her. For some reason, Sir Ambrose always managed to find her no matter how hard she hid.

"Sweet lady!" He greeted her warmly. His long, weary-looking face was wreathed in a huge grin.

"No..." Bernadette said aloud, but she couldn't hide away from his enthusiastic greeting no matter how hard she tried. He came over and took her hand, shaking it with enthusiasm.

"My dear Miss Rothendale. How lovely! What a fine surprise."

"Um...Sir Ambrose, I shall take to the dance floor presently..." she tried, but he lurched forward, beaming.

"Dance! A fine idea! Shall we waltz, dear lady?"

"Um..." Bernadette tried to think of something that wouldn't upset him—after all, when he was less full of brandy, he was an affable, nice man. But nothing came into her mind, and the length of the pause was taken as agreement. He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. She felt too surprised to escape. The musicians were starting up a tune. He tilted his head, listening to it.

"A Polonaise, how delightful! I am quite adept at the dance, a refined and elegant choice even though it is not the waltz."

"No..." Bernadette murmured, but his hand was in hers, his other hand by his side, as they stood side-by-side on the dance floor. Bernadette sent up a prayer in thanks for the fact that it was a Polonaise. At least he wasn't standing as close to her as they would in a waltz.

The music started and they stepped forward. Bernadette tried to keep time with the music, but if Sir Ambrose could hear the music, it would be a miracle. He was stumbling about, and Bernadette bit her lip, almost amused by the wide-eyed shock on the faces of the other guests. They surely must all know him, she thought, a little angrily. They shouldn't judge him—or her—so unkindly.

I need to get him to sit down.

She glanced about the room. On their left were some chairs. If she got him seated, perhaps someone would show him compassion and put him on the terrace where the cold breeze might do what nothing else could in cutting through the fumes in his brain.

"Over there! Sir Ambrose...let's go there." she called to him. The music was loud, the banter around them making it hard to hear.

"There..." he murmured drunkenly.

Bernadette bit her lip. Taking action, she stepped deliberately off the dance floor, tugging him off with her. She walked briskly to the chairs; cheeks red as people stared at them.

"Sit down, Sir Ambrose," she murmured, positioning him near a chair. He stepped forward, lurching dangerously.

"A chair. A chair!" he half-yelled. The noise of conversing people and music was too loud, fortunately, for any but those nearest to hear them, and, in another miracle of the evening, one of those people was their host's niece.

"Here, Sir Ambrose," she murmured quietly. "Sit here." She helped him into the chair, grinning at Bernadette in silent thanks. Bernadette inclined her head politely. She looked around, cheeks flaming as she spotted some staring eyes, and hurried across the room, back to the corner where she'd hidden before. In a moment, Viola was beside her.

"A dangerous man, he is." Viola murmured the words to evade being heard.

"Sir Ambrose isn't dangerous," Bernadette said softly. "Just too full of Lady Cobham's good brandy."

"Sir Ambrose?" Viola sounded confused for a moment. "Oh. No. Not him. I meant that man over there. He was going to ask me to dance, and I confess I didn't wish to."

"Which one?" Bernadette craned her neck to see, heart thudding nervously.

"Tall man. Black jacket. Over there by the pillar."

Bernadette frowned. At first, she saw nothing, but in a moment, she spotted someone close to the back of the ballroom. The man who was standing by the wall there was very tall, his hair honey-pale and bright in the light of the candles. She couldn't see any details of his face, since he was too far away, but she could see the tense, tight way he stood; a posture that conveyed anger or frustration.

"He looks a difficult sort," she murmured. Perhaps difficult wouldn't have been the word she'd have chosen—tormented, perhaps. But Viola nodded agreeably.

"I think so. I came to stand here. I don't want him to ask me to dance. I felt intimidated."

"Why?" Bernadette asked. That was most unlike Viola, who was both bold and outgoing. While the man looked quite unfriendly, he didn't seem dangerous; at least not from the look of him.

"He's strange. Very quiet," Viola explained nervously. "And he's got this terrible scar. I think he must have dueled a lot. I don't like people who duel. They must be very violent," Viola confided.

"Perhaps," Bernadette replied. She thought perhaps the man was unfortunate, not violent—after all, perhaps he hadn't challenged people to duels, but had himself been challenged to a few. All it took was one duel, after all, to scar a man badly.

"I want to go onto the terrace again. It's too hot in here," Viola murmured, interrupting her thoughts. "Are you coming?"

Bernadette nodded. It would be good to go outside, away from the heat, the off-key music, and the scrutiny of too many people. She scanned the crowd for Mama, who caught sight of them, and glared, but Bernadette turned around swiftly, determined not to see it.

I have done my best , she told herself firmly. It was no good staying inside for another hour—if she hadn't filled up her dance-card already, she didn't imagine that she suddenly would in the last half of the ball.

She walked with Viola, listening with half an ear to her chatter about the different people she spotted as they approached the terrace. Her thoughts were with her mother and the angry look she'd given them on their way to the door. Viola went through ahead of her, and Bernadette hung back a little, hearing the sound of voices and feeling nervous. She drew a deep breath and strode out, still focusing on her mother, and she didn't notice that someone was in front of her until she'd thumped into them hard. The scent of pomade cannoned into her nose and a very muscled, very tall form stunned her as she connected with it at a swift pace.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in fright. "I'm so sorry."

She looked up.

"This is a narrow doorway," the man who gazed down at her said feeling annoyed. "You could try and be more careful."

Bernadette froze. It was the man with the scar, the one Viola had pointed out across the ballroom. This close, the scar was about as thick as a thin piece of wool, and wove across his mouth diagonally, moving from his chin to the corner of his nose. His eyes were very blue and bright, his face chiseled. He gazed down at Bernadette disdainfully.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured again, feeling annoyance rise in her even as shame burned her cheeks and chest. He could try being polite! He had just as much reason to apologize as she had.

"It's very crowded in here," he said coldly. "One ought to look more carefully before one steps into a narrow space."

Bernadette said nothing. Cheeks burning, she stared up at the man to see if there was even a glimmer of humor or embarrassment in his gaze. His eyes were cold, pale blue and icy, and Bernadette shivered, looking hastily down. The look he was directing at her was so disdainful that it held all her attention.

"Sorry," she said again, heart thumping with the need to escape. She turned around and walked swiftly out through the door.

"Bernadette? Bernadette?" Viola was calling from where she waited out on the terrace. Bernadette ran to her.

"Thank Goodness you're here." She whispered the words.

"What happened?" Viola asked softly. Her big dark eyes were wide with concern. "Who was that man you were talking to?"

"He was that man you said you didn't like. The one who nearly asked you to dance. The scarred one," Bernadette gabbled, glancing back at the door to make sure he wasn't there and could not hear her. She blushed fiercely and tried to get his face out of her mind. Every time she thought of it, heat flooded through her, and her heartbeat raced fearfully.

"What? And you bumped into him?" Viola let out a little shriek.

"Yes. Yes, I did," Bernadette whispered, cheeks flaring up with heat. "Please, don't say it so loudly."

"Sorry." Viola grinned. "But him! He's so serious. You'd think he'd snap if he bowed, he's so stiff."

Bernadette giggled. The shame lifted, lost in Viola's funny description. She grinned at her friend. The cool breeze blew around them.

"Come on! It's so nice and refreshing out here," Viola said brightly, almost dragging her onwards towards the rail where there were fewer people.

Bernadette nodded. "I can feel it," she murmured, stepping out onto the cold stone stairs at the edge. She breathed in the cool, dew scented air of the garden, and felt her soul ease a little. She was safe out there, away from critical gazes, the garden was welcoming and as cool as a spring breeze.

Here, her mother was far away, along with the ball and its attendees, all far away behind the doors, and even the scarred man—whoever he was—was safely hidden from view. The world felt good and safe, and no matter what reaction her family would have to her escaping the ball, it was worth it for these moments of peace.

She pushed the thoughts of the blond-haired man out of her mind and tried to relax.