Chapter One

July 5, 1812

I f it were possible to literally fade into the wallpaper, Miss Florence Bailey would have managed to do it about three years ago.

As it was, however . . .

Florence smiled weakly as Mrs. Pullman laughed riotously at a joke of her own making. "Yes. Yes, I see. Very amus—"

"And of course, Prinny darling nearly wept with tears—wept!" cried Mrs. Pullman over the polite mutterings of the younger woman. "The man could barely see, he was enjoying himself so much!"

If she knew anything about Prinny, Florence thought, it was that his lapse in vision was probably due to the sheer amount of brandy he had likely consumed, or the snuff he had borrowed with no intention of repaying the favor from his friends.

She did not say these words, of course. Florence may not have learned how to disappear in public, but she had certainly taught herself to hold her tongue when her sharp mind presented it with a less than flattering remark.

Most of the time.

"—howls of laughter, I really thought I had broken him!"

"How amazing!" said a wide-eyed woman about Florence's age, whose name she had already forgotten. "To merely be in the presence of a prince is one thing, but to actually make him laugh..."

The conversation continued. At least, Florence was almost certain it did. She couldn't be entirely sure, because she had already taken advantage of Mrs. Pullman's momentary distraction in the way she had hoped to do for over eight minutes.

Florence had stepped back, slowly, out of the small gaggle of women, and was now creeping slowly toward the drawing room door.

That was it. She was almost there.

Almost free. Almost out of this cacophony of sound, the constant stares, the well-meaning smiles, the people consistently asking her—

"Ah, Miss Bailey!" boomed Mr. Knight with a wide grin. "Or are y'married by now?"

Florence's weak smile almost faded under the barrage of the good-hearted man. It certainly faltered.

Well, it was the question everyone asked a woman of a certain age, did they not? Even if that certain age was naught but four and twenty...

"Still M-Miss Bailey, Mr. Knight," she said quietly, her voice barely strong enough to be heard over the violent laughter that surrounded Mrs. Pullman.

"Well, can't be long, I'll be bound," said Mr. Knight jovially. "My wife has said how awfully pleasant it is to have you about the place. We couldn't have had the house party without you!"

It was on the tip of Florence's tongue to point out that having her at a house party made little to no difference, that she was a wallflower, desperate to hide, desperate not to be noticed, hoping from one moment to the next that she would not be called upon to speak. Or sing. Or breathe loudly. And his dear wife had not spoken a word to her since she had arrived at the Knights' nearly four whole days ago. She doubted the woman could pick her out of a—

"How k-kind," Florence murmured.

There was no point in attempting to speak those things. Not when her cheeks flushed a heavy burning pink at the mere thought of them.

Mr. Knight puffed out his chest. "It was quite a coup to get this group of people together, y'know! I don't mind telling you, getting some of these toffs to leave their houses is quite impossible. And we have more guests arriving this afternoon!"

Florence's hopes sank.

More people? More names to remember, more faces to gawp at her—more people?

Were the ten who were here already insufficient?

Mr. Knight misunderstood her expression. "I knew you'd be pleased!"

Florence swallowed. She tried to remind herself it would all be over in a few days, that the constant commiserations that she was entering her fourth Season—fourth!—unmarried were not a slight on her family. It was just a comment on her, and it would all soon be over and done with. She would cease to be asked who was courting her, cease to have to explain that no, she had no younger sister who was prevented from coming out, and cease to be forced to acknowledge that no, she herself had not yet managed to find a husband.

In short, soon she would be able to escape the marriage mart completely.

In just a few days.

Until then . . .

"You look a little tired, if I may be so bold as to say so, my dear."

Florence blinked, and the face of Mr. Knight swam back into view. As did her excuse.

"T-Tired—yes, I am greatly f-fatigued," she said hastily, almost doing the unthinkable and reaching out to touch the man's arm. Dear Lord, what was coming over her! "I think I sh-shall go upstairs to m-my room and—"

"Can't have you abandoning afternoon tea, can we?" said Mr. Knight happily, as though it would be the end of British civilization as they knew it. "Here, let me deposit you on a sofa, far away from the chatter."

Just for a moment, Florence considered arguing with the man. She didn't want to stay in the stuffy drawing room, a fire lit even in July, filled with people she didn't know. Even those she knew, she didn't like.

There was lace everywhere, cushions and wall hangings and crochet, the place was fit to bursting. And Mrs. Pullman was laughing so loudly the sound pounded on her ear drums, and there were people everywhere, people who would stare and ask awkward questions and—

"Let me find a nice sofa for you," said Mr. Knight in what he evidently thought was a kindly voice.

Before Florence could attest to the fact that she merely wished to go upstairs and be alone, completely alone, he had taken her arm. Mr. Knight shepherded her through the crowded drawing room, acting as a sort of barrier between the guests and herself. And by the time she had been carefully lowered onto a sofa, at least ten feet from a single other person, Florence had to admit it was a decent second choice.

Just not her first choice.

"There," Mr. Knight said proudly, as though he had achieved something remarkable. "Now, I'd better be off—new guests arriving, and all that!"

Florence managed a watery smile. "B-But... I w-would much rather retire up—"

He was gone before he could even hear the end of her sentence.

Inhaling deeply and arranging her hands just so, as her mother had always taught her, Florence tried to force her face into a genteel, vague expression.

It was not difficult. It was the sort of thing she had been doing since she had first entered Society, at the late age of almost twenty.

It was her mother's fault.

And not just the inane expression or the house party, however true it might be that Florence had been most insistent that she did not wish to spend what was turning out to be one of the hottest weeks of the year with strangers. But Mama had insisted, too, and when Mama insisted, Mama got what she wanted.

No, more than that, it was her mother's fault that she hadn't entered Society until so late. That she had been kept away from the world.

Though Florence hadn't complained. She disliked the world, with all its noise and chatter and rules. Rules that didn't seem to make any sense. Rules she had to abide by, even if they made her flush, and her stomach churn, and her heart cease beating.

Well. Perhaps not entirely cease.

Regardless, it had been her mother's firm suggestion that she accept the house party invitation from the Knights, and Florence hadn't had the energy to continue arguing with her once it was clear her mind was made up.

And there were only a few days left , she reminded herself as she sat alone on the red cotton sofa. Just a few days to avoid people, and try not to get caught up in conversations, and—

"—must have heard, it's all over Town!" said a woman Florence was almost certain was a Mrs. Lymington. "I read about it. The announcement was a few weeks ago."

"But I was not even aware the Duke of Cothrom was courting!" said another woman, a Mrs. Moncrieff, in tones of mild offense, as though she should have been informed.

The two of them had meandered close to Florence, much to her chagrin. Mr. Knight may have placed her far away from the current gaggles of conversation, but the sofa on which she sat was close to the afternoon tea table.

Mightily close.

"I heard it was rather a rushed affair," continued Mrs. Lymington as she helped herself to another slice of cake. "And that never bodes well, if you ask me."

"Well, titled folks have a different way of doing things, I suppose," said Mrs. Moncrieff with a shrug, pouring herself a cup of tea. "They seldom marry for love, do they? I suppose it is not much of a consideration for them, so they need not wait to see how they suit. What do you think?"

Florence started. She had hoped to remain inconspicuous here on the sofa. Her light red muslin gown, after all, was not too dissimilar a color to that of the sofa.

Dissimilar enough, it appeared.

"I-I... I do not know the man," she managed to say, a little proud of herself for actually replying.

Mrs. Moncrieff was not similarly impressed. She snorted. "I did not ask if you knew him, Miss Bailey. I asked what you thought!"

Heat burned Florence's cheeks.

It should be illegal , she thought furiously as her tongue attempted to work, to ask people such things .

What did she know? Had she ever met the duke in question? She'd never met any duke before, and as for the only marquess she had ever encountered...

Well. The less said about him, the better.

Anyway, who was she to go around passing judgment on other people's lives? It certainly wasn't something she would wish for others to do to her. And why were they so excited about the whole thing? It was only a duke's marriage. Surely that sort of thing happened... well, all the time!

Perhaps not all the time. How many dukes were there in England, anyway? There seemed to be more and more of them with every passing year...

"I said, Miss Bailey, that I asked—"

"I-I am af-fraid I do not have an... an opinion," Florence said stiffly.

The hope had been, naturally, that that would be the end of it. That she would not have to concern herself with any further nonsense, and the two women would take their tea and cake and return to whatever inane conversation they had departed.

And they did. In a manner of speaking.

"Well!" Mrs. Lymington said, with a gasp that suggested Miss Bailey had mortally wounded her. "I never heard the like!"

"Too well-bred for the likes of us, I see," sneered Mrs. Moncrieff, peering at Florence with a most bad-tempered eye. "At least we've been put in our place, and I thank you for it, Miss Bailey!"

The two ladies flounced off to the other side of the room.

It was all Florence could do not to drop her head into her hands.

Why was it that Society was so eager to force gossip upon and from its members? Why could she not just read? Or leave the room in search of solitude? Or even better, disappear from this house party altogether?

It was most infuriating that she had no carriage to whisk her away. It was most irritating that merely leaving this room would cause comment, even suggest offense to her hosts. And it was infuriating that no matter what she did, Florence thought with still-reddening cheeks, she was still the person no one wished to talk to.

And from there, the afternoon wore on in much the same manner that she expected it would, but for two incidents.

The first was the sort of thing Florence had grown accustomed to over the years, though it did not make it any easier to endure. About an hour after her last conversation—the unfortunate one with Mrs. Lymington and her companion—Florence had, ironically as it turned out, been congratulating herself at fading into the background.

Rarely, she did manage it. The red gown on the red sofa helped, but so had the arrival of Miss Quintrell, who was apparently a great wit, and it was an impressive feat for the Knights to have her at their house party. Florence's only thought on her was delight that she had taken the attention of the room, but most unfortunately, that delight did not last. Not when the woman strode over confidently to help herself to tea, waving away a maid who seemed desperate to do it for her—and spotted Florence.

"Goodness, I hardly saw you there," said the young woman with a grin. "Miss Quintrell. And you are?"

Florence had to swallow twice to make it possible for her mouth to work. It was most embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as the vague gurgling noise that exited her mouth.

"I... beg your pardon?" said the woman, pouring herself tea and frowning.

Florence cleared her throat.

As though that would help. It was the shyness that was the paralyzer, not anything to do with her throat. It was an affliction, that was what her mother had called it, and Florence had never been able to argue with her. Partly because of the problem itself, unquestionably. But partly because she agreed with her.

It was an affliction, this shyness that reduced her to an incomprehensible mutterer whenever she felt out of her depth. Chits of seventeen coming up into their first Season had far more bravery in company.

Florence could only be grateful that at least there had been no mention of dancing at the Knights' house party. That was a small mercy.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," said the newly arrived Miss Quintrell politely. And then she did something so awful, so terrible, Florence could hardly contain herself.

She sat beside Florence.

"I hated the idea of turning up late to a house party, but I simply couldn't get away from Lady Romeril's final garden party in London," said Miss Quintrell, as though they had been friends for years and were finally catching up after a busy Season. "You know how it is."

Florence swallowed, her throat closing up more with every attempt to loosen it.

She did know how it was. Lady Romeril was one of her greatest fears. Not because there was anything wrong with the woman. She was not malicious, which in London was saying something. Nor was she cruel, or small hearted, or small minded.

But she was so . . . so . . .

"I honestly thought she would bodily prevent any of us from leaving, she was having such a great time," Miss Quintrell said in a confidential low tone, giggling at her scandalously impolite remark.

She waited for Florence to laugh with her. Florence knew that, knew what should be said and done.

And she couldn't do it. Iron had coated her veins, or steel—something that kept her precisely immobile, unable to smile, unable to nod, unable to speak.

It was mortifying. With every passing second, she could see Miss Quintrell becoming more curious, waiting for Florence to join in, to say something, and she couldn't.

Florence couldn't do it.

And she hated herself, and railed against Society that demanded so much of her, and wished to goodness the woman hadn't sat down, hadn't spotted her, hadn't wanted tea.

Oh, why hadn't she let the maid get it for her?

"Are . . . are you quite well?"

Florence coughed violently and was somehow able to shift herself. Quick, speak! "I-I-I am q-quite well. Th-Thank you."

Perhaps that would be all the woman would require. Surely, Florence thought desperately, she would return to the main party now that she had been polite. It wasn't as though there would be much riveting conversation on the sofa.

"You... you are very shy, aren't you?" said Miss Quintrell quietly.

It was all Florence could do to nod. She could feel the tension in her bones, the creak of her muscles as she made the smallest movement.

Her lungs were tight, constricting along with her throat. And her cheeks—they burned. She would not have been surprised to find blisters if she'd had the wherewithal to move her hands and lift them to her cheeks.

But that would require much more movement than a tiny nod. And such movement was still impossible.

"I . . . I see," Miss Quintrell said.

They sat there, the two of them, in almost perfect silence for several minutes.

It was not complete silence, of course. Florence's breathing was ragged, her panic continuing to rise, and she knew the woman beside her could hear her laboring lungs, and that embarrassment only made the whole thing worse! Until eventually—

"Well, good afternoon," Miss Quintrell said with a small nod.

She rose. Then she was gone.

Her absence signaled release to Florence's whole body. Her lungs suddenly took in air, and it was only then that she realized just how lightheaded she had become without its regular intake. Gasping huge lungfuls of the precious stuff, Florence wished to goodness the whole incident had never happened.

Oh, it was polite of her, undeniably. Miss Quintrell, if she had recalled her name correctly, was clearly a very well-meaning individual. They always were. But then Florence would stutter, and her shyness would make it impossible for her to do anything, say anything, contribute anything...

And they would get bored, as Miss Quintrell obviously had. And they would disappear.

And the worst of it all , Florence thought silently, was that she couldn't blame them.

They were at a house party. It was supposed to be all delight and entertainment, good conversation and games and sport, and here she was, stuck in the middle of it, unable to be delighted, unable to entertain. There had been a walk yesterday—that Florence had attended in silence. And someone had suggested bowls for tomorrow—something Florence had no wish to partake in, but she would have no choice but to succumb to the expectations of the group.

And more people were arriving . . .

Florence blinked back tears. It was bad enough to be so shy that one's lips simply could not work properly, but it was worse to be forced out into company to demonstrate just how ill-equipped she was to entertain.

This had to be it , she told herself. The last house party.

She wasn't going to permit her mother to make a fool of her any longer. No more house parties, no more balls, no more demanding that she perform in public when the absolute last thing she wanted was to even be seen by someone she wasn't related to. Suffering through it all? That had to come to an end.

In a way, Florence thought vaguely as she watched the other guests exchange gossip, laugh, and chatter away as though their mouths always obeyed them, it would be a relief. After all, she was certain her presence was a dampener on anything she attended. Had not Miss Quintrell proven that?

So that was the first incident. The first thing that occurred that afternoon that Florence had not expected.

The second was far worse.

Another hour passed and Florence's hopes had just been starting to rise again after her encounter with Miss Quintrell. It would not be long now before guests would retire upstairs to dress for dinner. Heaven.

Not that forcing herself from one gown into another was her idea of heaven, oh no. It was the blessed hour, or sometimes a tad more than an hour, which Florence would have to herself upstairs in her little guest bedchamber.

Sixty whole minutes of uninterrupted silence. No expectations, no conversation, no disappointing anyone because she could not reply to a quip swiftly and with a smile.

Florence sighed with happiness. Yes, in just a few minutes, she would be able to escape this drawing room, and—

The door opened. Her mind instantly assumed that a servant was arriving to tidy away the tea things—and a good thing too, that cake was in danger of spilling over onto the carpet.

But it was not a servant.

It was a man. A tall man, with dark hair, deep blue eyes, fashionable clothes which had been tailored around the man's impressive breadth, and a smile that showed the world that he was quite aware of how handsome he was.

Very handsome, as it happened.

Florence's gasp hitched in her throat the instant her eyes fell upon him.

"Well then," said the man with a broad smirk and a gaze that swept across the room. "Which of you ladies will I be seducing?"