Chapter 1

"Well, if it isn't Lady Rose Hardwood." The lady's voice was cold and mocking. "Where is your beastly brother this evening, Lady Rose?"

Rose froze, looking back hesitantly at the group of ladies clustered on the edges of the grand ballroom. There were five of them, all coiffed and dressed to perfection. She knew them by name, but only remotely. She had never had a conversation with a single one of them.

The ladies all tittered, covering their faces with their fans, as if the brown-haired lady who had addressed Rose had just said something marvelously witty and amusing. Rose felt her face flush a dull red, mortified. She loathed being the center of attention, even when people were praising her, but it was especially mortifying when it was a group of spiteful cats like these ladies.

Just ignore them. Just smile disdainfully and keep walking. Keep your dignity. Do not let them see how much they affect you.

"Where is your brother this evening, Lady Rose?" the brown-haired lady continued, arching her eyebrows. "We have not seen him around town much since his marriage. Has the beast found someone else to watch over from his den? Has he abandoned his watch over you?"

The group of ladies giggled again, watching Rose avidly, clearly anticipating a confrontation.

Rose swung around, facing the brown-haired lady, her heart racing. The lady was trussed up like a turkey, in a frilly white gown that swamped her, a large ostrich feather in her hair, which swung dangerously whenever she moved her head.

Rose studied her carefully. The lady was wearing too much makeup—her face was covered in white powder, which was starting to melt due to the heat in the room, and two bold patches of rouge on both cheeks. Rose noted that she had darkened her eyebrows with charcoal, as well.

How tacky. The lady is plain and clearly thinks she needs all the help she can get to be noticed at this ball.

"I do not believe we have been introduced," Rose countered, in what she hoped was a frosty voice, although she could hear the slight tremor in it. "Who are you?"

The lady raised her eyebrows. "I am Miss Hartfield," she said haughtily, clearly believing that Rose should instantly recognize her name. "My father is the Viscount Darby."

"Really?" Rose coldly looked the lady up and down. "That is strange. I have never heard of the Viscount Darby. Are you new in London?"

The ladies giggled, then stopped abruptly when Miss Hartfield shot them a poisonous look.

"Hardly," the lady replied curtly. "My family have a residence in Grosvenor Square, Lady Rose. We attend the Seasons religiously."

"Well, that is odd, then," Rose continued in a pensive voice. "I have never seen you at a single Society event, and I have been out for four years now, and regularly attend them. Perhaps you are just not particularly memorable, Miss Hartfield."

The lady seemed flustered and at a loss for words.

Rose felt a small stab of satisfaction. She loathed confronting this type of lady, but if she was forced to, it was deeply satisfying to plant a dart or two, just to watch the lady come down a peg.

It still happens far too often. The shadow of Alexander's reputation still lingers, even though it has been years since our father's death. And now my reputation is affected just by association.

Rose's eyes darted around the ballroom. The house belonged to the Earl of Mentone and was one of the grandest in London. It was crowded with people, the crème de la crème of high society, all mingling and chatting and laughing, if they weren't dancing.

But Rose did not have a single person here who she could say was her true friend, not even a close acquaintance. The shadow of her brother's reputation had seen to that. If ladies didn't mock her, as they were doing now, they avoided her like the plague, fearful that they might evoke the wrath of the Beastly Duke, which was what they called Alexander behind his back.

Prior to her brother's marriage to the lovely and sweet Miss Edwina Maddox, Alexander had watched over Rose like a hawk, so overprotective that she couldn't even talk to someone without him hovering, scaring them away. And even though Alexander was preoccupied with his own family now, and not as vigilant over Rose, the effects still lingered.

"You have not answered my question," Miss Hartfield pressed, glaring at Rose, clearly deciding to up the ante and keep attacking her, rather than retreat. "Where is your brother?"

"I am not my brother's keeper, Miss Hartfield," Rose replied, raising her chin. "I suppose he is home with his family. He is married now and has a child, with another one on the way. I suppose that the Duke and Duchess of Northfolk have better things to do than prance around a ballroom. They have other priorities."

Miss Hartfield gave a derisive laugh. "Oh, yes, we all know that he was compelled to marry the Duchess," she countered, glancing sideways at her posse of ladies. "It was yet another scandal to add to the pile. It is a wonder that your family can keep up with them all, Lady Rose."

Rose took a step closer to the lady, trembling. The other ladies were silent and wide-eyed, looking a bit shocked at their friend's boldness, but eager to witness what was going to happen next.

Rose felt a wave of contempt for them. In some ways, she despised them more than the vitriolic Miss Hartfield, for they were cowards, unwilling to say anything to either egg their friend on or to defend Rose from her meanness.

There are so few genuinely nice people in this world. At least,I have encountered so few that I barely believe they exist any longer.

She felt like the loneliest lady in London.

"Neither myself nor my family are any of your concern, Miss Hartfield," Rose said slowly, trying hard not to show how much the lady was upsetting her. "And you should watch how you talk about the Duke of Northfolk. You might be the daughter of a viscount, but I am the sister of a duke. You should know your place, Miss Hartfield."

The ladies drew a collective breath, turning to Miss Hartfield, to see how she would respond. Rose despised pulling ranks, reminding someone that she was socially superior to them, but this lady had asked for it. No, she had begged for it.

"Better the daughter of a blameless viscount than the sister of a rakish duke," Miss Hartfield snapped, her face flushed a deep red, as if it were on fire. "My family is not mired in controversy, Lady Rose. They are not constantly mentioned in the scandal sheets. I wonder when it will be your turn?"

Rose felt her hand rise. She was itching to slap the lady across her smug face. With difficulty, she stifled the urge.

Do not cause a scene. Do not give them the satisfaction. That is what they want.

"I bid you good evening," Rose said through gritted teeth, turning on her heel and marching stiffly away.

She felt the eyes of the ladies boring into her back, but she kept walking, pushing through the crowd, her eyes filling with tears of mortification and rage. She couldn't see a single thing. She knew she was dangerously close to bursting into tears.

When she was out of the ballroom, she hesitated. Her mother, the Dowager Duchess of Northfolk, who was her chaperone for the evening, had retreated to a room with the other older matrons to gossip and stuff themselves with seed cakes and cups of tea. Her mama had only lingered for half an hour in the ballroom after they had arrived, satisfied that she had done her duty by her youngest child, before fleeing upstairs.

Rose contemplated going to her, insisting that they leave, but she knew what her mother's response would be. The Dowager Duchess would tell her to buck up, to take the lady's meanness with a grain of salt, to not let it bring her down. She would remind Rose that she was the sister of a duke, the daughter of a late duke, and that she was better than all of them. She would tell Rose to stop being so sensitive.

And then the other matrons would start on her, asking her if she was courting anyone, if she was close to becoming engaged, and then tut when she would tell them she wasn't, telling her she had such a pretty face and it was surely only time. She just needed to smile more and keep her opinions to herself.

I cannot endure it. I do not need to be told that I am twenty-two years old now and if I do not secure a good match soon then I am surely headed to spinsterhood.

Rose headed down the long hallway of the house, dodging people who looked at her a bit oddly.

She started as she glimpsed her reflection in a hallway mirror. She stopped abruptly, approaching it, staring at herself critically, with wide eyes.

She was pale, even paler than usual. To her dismay, her unruly, small golden curls had escaped her chignon, even though her maid had secured them with about a hundred hairpins. People praised her heart-shaped face, but she could see that her chin was too pointed. Her eyes were large and usually golden brown, but they had darkened with her unshed tears.

I wish I looked like anyone but myself. I wish I was anyone but myself.

A small sob escaped her lips. Whenever she saw herself, she still saw the scared, little girl she had once been, who had never been able to do anything right, who had constantly walked on eggshells, fearful of her father's wrath.

It was my fault. It was my fault that Papa died so horribly. If only I hadn't spoken to him, then he wouldn't have reacted so badly to me, and Alexander would never have been forced to intervene.

Rose kept walking swiftly, hiding her tears, then breathed a sigh of relief. She had found the library. She slipped into the room, closing the door firmly behind her, gazing at the tall rows of bookshelves. Already, she was starting to feel just a little better.