Chapter One

November 1, 1812

And just as she knew they would, everyone was looking.

“Miss Edith Stewart, the flourishing rose—”

“Yes, yes, we don’t need all that,” muttered Edie, pushing past the footman announcing every arrival in a loud, clear voice.

Her arm was tugged as though by a solid weight. Turning, she saw her father’s impassive, pale face.

“We’ll stay,” he said quietly. “For all of it. Start again, man.”

Edie swallowed all her protests, standing as they were on the top of the steps that led down into Lady Romeril’s ball, and glared at the footman. He had the goodness to look ashamed of himself, but when your father was a baron, a glare was typically insufficient to make servants do what you wanted.

“Ahem,” said the footman, evidently a little lost. “Erm. The Right Honorable Baron Stewart. Miss Edith Stewart, the flourishing rose, as chosen by our queen, Queen Charlotte… “

Edie suffered through it as eyes turned throughout the elegantly appointed ballroom. Apparently, the beautifully playing musicians, the chatter and gossip already flowing through the place, and the punch table were insufficient to hold the room’s attention.

No, they had to stare at her. And over a ridiculous title, one that meant nothing, that suggested naught but—

“—and Ireland,” finished the footman, his cheeks pink. “My lord.”

“Thank you,” Edie’s father said stiffly, his narrow shoulders held back.

Then, and only then, did he step forward to enter the ballroom.

Holding on to his arm and wishing to goodness she had refused to attend this one, Edie kept her head high as her father would have wished but ensured never to permit her attention to settle on a single person.

Meeting someone’s eye, after an introduction like that, was liable to suggest scandal. Either that she thought herself above her station, as merely the daughter of a baron, or that she—heaven forbid—was attempting to attract attention.

“Now, what did we agree?” murmured her father almost without moving his thin lips.

Edie sighed but made sure not to let her shoulders show it as they came to a gentle stop just to the side of the wall. Really, this was ridiculous. She was four and twenty, and—

“Edie.”

Plastering a genteel expression on her face that would convince anyone looking at them that nothing was amiss, Edie said in a singsong voice, “Dance with as many gentlemen as possible. Never dance with the same gentleman twice. Only one glass of punch. Smile with the ladies. Only discuss—”

“Excellent,” said her father at the same time as Lady Romeril approached them.

“Ah, Lord Stewart, Miss Stewart, I thought I heard you announced,” declared their hostess, moving toward them in a rush of green silk. “Twice, I believe. How remarkable. Wanted to make an entrance?”

Edie’s cheeks burned as her father merely gave their hostess a charming smile.

“Oh, you know how it is. The echoes in a place as wonderful as your ballroom,” Lord Stewart said easily. “A hostess such as yourself, who is so careful and dedicated to her guests, you were clearly concentrating to make sure we were sufficiently welcomed. As, I thank you, we have been.”

He reached out, took the eagerly proffered hand, and brushed his lips across the shapely woman’s gloved knuckles.

Lady Romeril, against all expectations of the room, giggled, her golden ringlets bouncing across her cheek.

Edie tried her best not to roll her eyes.

David Steward, the fourth Baron Stewart, who greatly enjoyed being a lord, had been a charmer all his life. That was what her mother had said. Lady Stewart had been grateful, according to the family tales, to even be noticed by the handsome, amiable gentleman when she had first been presented to court.

And become a flourishing rose, or some such nonsense.

Edie didn’t see it herself. Oh, Father was charming in that old-fashioned way. All obsequiousness and bows. But he wasn’t—

“—too kind, I assure you,” said Lady Romeril, fluttering her eyelashes.

Everyone around them was staring— staring . And well they might. Edie had never seen Lady Romeril flutter her eyelashes in her entire life.

Her father was still speaking smoothly. “—and there was no better place for my young Edie to appear tonight, not after last week’s pronouncement.”

Both he and Lady Romeril peered at Edie, who attempted to keep her face impassive.

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” said Lady Romeril, her eyes sharpening that now she was no longer being admired by the handsome, silver-streaked widower Lord Stewart. “And you are delighted, aren’t you, Miss Stewart? To be declared so?”

Edie hesitated.

Only for a moment. The instant she caught her father’s eye, she uttered the trite, little statement they’d rehearsed.

“It’s an honor, to be sure,” she said, flicking out her fan and fluttering it before her.

Lord Stewart’s eyes narrowed.

Admittedly, the fan had not been part of the agreement—but really, did he expect her to be gawped at all night without a fan to retreat behind?

“I do hope there are equally as impressive gentlemen with whom my daughter might become acquainted,” her father said to Lady Romeril. “I am sure you will understand the delicacy of such a matter, my lady.”

Edie tried not to groan. Does he have to be so obvious?

“Yes, yes, I quite understand,” Lady Romeril responded. “In fact, there are a few gentlemen I would suggest. First of all… “

Without engaging any muscles that weren’t required for the subtle movement, Edie took a small step backward.

There was no response from her father.

Attempting to hold her breathing, Edie took another. And a third.

By the fifth step backward, she was sufficiently out of earshot and could give a heavy sigh as she reached the ballroom wall.

Dear God, but she hated this.

She hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. The argument had been brief, for Lord Stewart always got his own way, particularly when it came to appearing in public. But Edie had been most stringent in her argument.

“I have no wish to be stared at,” she had said only minutes before in the carriage as it had pulled up outside Lady Romeril’s London home.

“And neither do I,” her father had replied, against all evidence to the contrary. “But it has to be done, my dear. If we are to find you an apt husband—”

The heat of the ballroom was pushing the memory aside. He was a good man, her father. Overbearing, certainly. Overly worried about the world’s opinion, and too obsessed with his own reputation. But he would never make her marry a man she did not wish to.

That he wished her to marry, and soon, and to a great title…

That had been clear from the instant she had entered Society.

“—heard? A Danish prince, they say. Yes, I thought that outrageous too, but the scandal sheets said—”

Edie’s head turned.

A pair of ladies, probably only a few years older than herself, was standing just to her left. Their fashionable gowns were trimmed with gold thread, and while one had tiny freshwater pearls entwined in her light-brown hair, the other had a most alarming trio of feathers woven through her black tresses.

But what they were wearing was immaterial. It was what they were speaking of that had drawn Edie’s attention.

“—read it myself this morning,” the befeathered lady was saying in a hushed tone that nevertheless carried the few feet between them. “The entire scandal sheet was—”

A passing trio of gentlemen arguing profusely about a card game walked between Edie and the gossiping ladies, entirely obscuring their speech. When the men had disappeared into what must have been the card room, Edie took a slight step to the left.

“—but I haven’t seen him about the place,” the woman with pearls in her hair said loftily. “And I am sure I would know a prince when I saw one.”

Edie had read that precise scandal sheet that morning. Whispers of the Ton . It was her favorite, and despite her father’s constant mutterings that he would forbid the thing within the house, he hadn’t ever followed through on that threat.

She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he believed it evidence of husband-hunting activities.

The very idea!

“There you are,” said a smug voice she knew all too well.

Ensuring a delightful smile was on her lips as she turned, Edie saw with a sinking feeling that her father had appeared. Beside him was a man with grizzled, gray hair and a moustache that had clearly been recently dipped in port.

Her hopes sank even lower. Oh, Father, what are you thinking?

“This,” Lord Stewart said, his chest puffed out in evident delight, “is His Highness, Henrik Olafson, the Crown Prince of Denmark.”

Edie remembered herself just in time. After sinking into a low curtsey—so low, her knees almost touched the floor—she rose and beamed as prettily as she could manage.

“Actually, I’m not the crown prince,” said the man awkwardly. “I’m just a minor noble. The title of ‘prince’ is a courtesy for—”

“Prince Henrik,” Lord Stewart said firmly, “wanted to be introduced to you, my dear, for a dance. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Edie looked helplessly into her father’s eager eyes. “Yes. Very wonderful.”

For there was no point in arguing with him, was there? At least not here in public, where anyone could overhear them. The whispered mutterings that would follow them after such a disgraceful display could never be outrun.

Not even if she somehow became the wife of this clearly embarrassed nobleman.

“Off you go, then!” trilled her father, pushing the gulping Prince Henrik toward her. “Listen, I think they’re about to start a Scotch reel. How fortuitous!”

Fortuitous, indeed , Edie thought dryly as she accepted Prince Henrik’s arm and allowed herself to be led to the center of the room. Except for the fact that we’re at a ball.

Of course, she could not deny that as the flourishing rose of the Season, she was receiving far better treatment than other ladies seeking husbands. Even if it was almost a new Season and she had not yet secured a match. She knew her time at the center of society was growing short. Part of her hoped to fade into the crowd with a new crop of debutantes come January, but her father would be disappointed. He wanted her married while she still held the title, however superfluous. But what was her father thinking—a prince?

Prince Henrik bowed low as she took her place in the line, and Edie allowed herself a small amount of pleasure in the opening bars of the music. Dancing was, after all, a most splendid pastime. The way the music thrummed through her, the beat matching the pulse of her—

“I am sorry, but I will not marry you,” said Prince Henrik as he stepped forward to take her hand.

Edie was so utterly surprised by the bland pronouncement that she almost tripped on her skirts.

Almost. One was not a flourishing rose for nothing.

“Goodness,” she said lightly, as though men frequently informed her of such things. “I was not aware that a proposal had been offered, my prince.”

She had guessed at “my prince,” after his comment about not being the crown prince. How did one address a prince who was not a prince?

Trying to recall the brief conversation she’d had with the man while weaving through the set, Edie maintained a light and easy smile on her face.

You never know who could be watching.

“I apologize—my English is not strong, and I do not understand your customs,” Prince Henrik said stiffly, taking her hand once more and turning her about in a circle before returning to the line of gentlemen. “No offense is meant.”

“No offense is taken,” said Edie, curiosity curling around her heart. “And—And I do not know your customs, my prince, so forgive me if I also speak out of turn… But I have no wish to marry you. So you see, there is no problem.”

The grizzled man’s face softened. “Ah. That is good.”

“Yes, I rather think it is,” Edie said quietly, adding to herself, “though my father will not be pleased.”

She could see him. It was difficult not to, standing as he was right at the front of the watching crowd, nodding eagerly whenever she caught his eye.

Despite herself, Edie could not help but chuckle. He was a dear man, her father, even if he was ridiculous at times. He had plainly thought he’d done a spectacular job, finding royalty at the ball to introduce her to.

Such a shame that Prince Henrik Olafson had no interest whatsoever in marrying her.

“You do not come here to be married?”

Edie winced at the man’s unrefined manner, but she could not deny the truth of what he said. “I suppose I did.”

He nodded curtly as he took both her hands, promenading her slowly down the set. “I do not.”

“I see,” Edie said, not seeing at all.

And then Prince Henrik’s cheeks crimsoned, just out of the corner of her eye. As she turned, she noticed his gaze had fixed on someone in the crowd. Someone else who was watching, who appeared to have the same level of great interest as her own father.

It was a gentleman of perhaps Prince Henrik’s age. He wore a military uniform she did not recognize—Danish, probably—and had such a look of adoration in his eyes, Edie felt quite rude observing it.

The stranger saw her curious expression and turned away.

Edie looked at the prince. He was blushing furiously. “I see.”

His forehead wrinkled immediately. “I would not wish you to presume—”

“It is of no matter to me whom anyone loves,” Edie said softly so they could not be overheard. “Not when two people love and admire each other. It is none of my business, and I… I wish you happiness, my prince.”

For a moment, she believed she had overstepped. Prince Henrik said nothing as he returned her to her place in the set and the musicians trilled their last notes. Applause rang out around the ballroom.

And then he smiled. “You are very charming, Miss Stewart.”

“Just make sure to tell my father that,” Edie said dryly. “Now, I’m going to hide—I mean, help myself to a glance of punch.”

Her partner nodded, then bowed low before striding off in the other direction toward a worried-looking gentleman who had been watching them closely.

Edie sighed to herself as she meandered to the punch table. It had a very handy column behind which she could remain out of sight of the general crowd.

Well, you never know a gentleman’s preferences by looking. Hopefully, Prince Henrik and his… friend were happy. They certainly appeared to have enough affection between them to ensure more happiness for themselves than most.

The glass of punch was unwelcomingly tepid in her hands. Were her hands warm, or was the punch a tad more potent than she had expected?

It mattered not. Edie took a large gulp of the liquid, affecting a coughing fit that was not completely false, and ducked behind the column.

There. At least she could stand here in peace for five minutes.

“—talk of the town,” a low voice was muttering. “I never would have imagined it—the Earl of Lindow, married!”

“Worse, to a woman of no fortune and as far as I can tell, no family,” replied another gentleman’s voice with a hint of skepticism. “I heard from one quarter that she’s the penniless daughter of a vicar!”

“Not anymore, she’s not,” replied the first voice. There was a trace of admiration in this one. “She’s a countess now. I suppose we shall have to hope Lord Lindow doesn’t lose his charm, even if he is married. He was a terrific gambler.”

“Dice and cards, yes, and the man knew his way around a racecourse like no other,” said his companion pensively. “I wonder if the Countess of Lindow will permit such pursuits?”

“In fact, I heard… “

Precisely what the man had heard, Edie was never to discover. They moved away, glasses perhaps filled with punch by now, leaving her to wonder at the gossip following this Earl of Lindow.

It sounded as though he had married for love. At least, she could fathom no other reason why a peer such as an earl would marry a penniless woman as described by their chattering.

Married for love.

Her lungs tightened, just for a moment, before Edie forced herself to inhale more naturally. It did happen to some. Her parents may have been a match for other reasons as well, but they’d certainly held a strong affection for one another. One heard about such things. One hoped for—

But there was no point in getting her hopes up. Not with the moniker most unwillingly bestowed upon her by the queen. Not with her father lurching about in search of a suitor.

And now that she came to think of it, her father had not sought her out after her dance with Prince Henrik. A flicker of excitement pulsed through her. Had she finally found a hiding place where even Lord Stewart could not find—

“You,” said a stern voice, “are hiding.”

Edie jumped so rapidly, she almost spilled her punch down her cream, silk gown.

She turned with a weak smile to her father. “Not hiding, precisely, merely standing in an out-of-the-way—”

“Don’t give me that, Edie. I know you,” said Lord Stewart with a twinkle in his eye. “And you were hiding.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I’m being paraded.”

“Nonsense,” her father said briskly. “Nothing quite like attending a ball, particularly one hosted by such a woman as Lady Romeril, to force the young bucks to sit up and take notice. Particularly when one is—”

“A flourishing rose,” Edie said wearily in unison with her father.

It was starting to become tiresome. Nothing had prepared her for the onslaught that coming into Society would bring. The instant she had arrived at court and had that terrible pronouncement declared over her, she’d been unable to move for invitations arriving at home.

Her father, of course, had been delighted.

“Just like your mother,” he’d said just yesterday. “I knew you had it within you, Edie. You are beautiful for a purpose.”

And that purpose , Edie thought dully as her father glanced about the place, seeking another insipid gentleman to whom to introduce her, is to hook a rich, eligible, and by all accounts fashionable young man. Then they could parade about together.

“I would prefer to go home,” she said softly, placing a hand on her father’s arm.

He did not appear to hear her. Oh, he heard that she had spoken—but her actual words appeared immaterial. “Everyone wants to meet you, Edie.”

Edie sighed.

They wanted to meet the flourishing rose. They wanted to gawp at a woman who had officially been declared beautiful—and by a queen, no less. They had no desire to actually meet her. Speak with her. Know anything about her more than her name and her dowry, and to see how beautiful she was.

A sick sort of roiling tension curled in her stomach.

“Absolutely everyone in the ton wants to meet you,” said her father insistently, patting her hand as it rested on his arm. “The whole world wants to meet Miss Edith Stewart, the flourishing—”

“Yes, that’s exactly the problem,” Edie said with heating cheeks.

She was not one to be rude, but wasn’t this getting ridiculous? After all, none of these people who supposedly were so eager to meet her knew anything about her, save the inane title she had been given. They did not know her character, her preferences, her sense of humor. They did not even know if she had any of these.

And yet they were desperate for her company?

It’s all so false , Edie could not help but think as she followed her father’s gaze and looked out over the crowd filling Lady Romeril’s ballroom. All of it—it was all an act.

Some people did not wish to be here at all and yet had plastered smiles on their faces. Some had merely plastered plaster, white powder and rouge everywhere—and not only on the ladies. Her keen eye could tell the “natural” looks were not so natural. The artifice of jewels and feathers and gold and silver thread overwhelmed the eye. It was all so… so false.

“—and I don’t think that previous gentleman was quite suitable,” her father was saying, his voice dull as he continued to look about the room. “You stay here, my dear, and I’ll go and find someone more appropriate.”

“Appropriate for what?” Edie asked testily, her pulse thrumming at her rudeness.

Lord Stewart blinked. “Why, for you to charm and wed, naturally. Now be a dear, and stay here.”

“But—”

He was gone before Edie could make any sort of remonstrances to the contrary.

Not that it would matter , she thought dully. Kind and gentle as her father was, he was still Baron Stewart. Painfully aware of that, in fact. Nothing would do but his only daughter—his only child—being married off to someone eminent and impressive.

Edie flicked out her fan and attempted to hide behind it. It was raised too high to be graceful, but there it was. She had little desire to be mentioned in the scandal sheets tomorrow for her inexpert fan wafting. She had no desire to be mentioned in them at all.

No, it was reading them that gave the most happiness.

Her eyes followed her father’s meandering journey through the ballroom just as she was knocked a step back by an overenthusiastic mama with what appeared to be seven daughters.

“Careful there, Josephine!”

“Yes, Mama… “

Edie had been forced closer to the wall, which in her opinion was no bad thing. Firstly, because it kept her out of the way of most of Lady Romeril’s guests, but secondly, because it brought to view something she had not previously noticed.

An alcove hidden by a curtain.

Lady Romeril had decorated her ballroom most splendidly, and by all accounts, she altered the decorations with each celebration. This evening, floor-to-ceiling bolts of shimmering silk hung from the ceiling, making the walls appear like those of a tent. It was a very captivating idea.

It also, however, hid the fact that just to Edie’s left was an alcove. The fabric had fluttered at the rush of movement from the mama and her many daughters, revealing a recess of several feet. There were candles in there, and two chaise lounges.

A place to hide.

Edie did not have to think. Her instincts, her need to be out of sight even for just a moment, overrode all other sensibilities.

Stepping slowly toward the fabric hiding the alcove, Edie was careful to keep her fan fluttering nonchalantly as though she were merely meandering around the ballroom.

And then, heart in her mouth, she ducked into the alcove.

Immediately, it brought blessed relief. There was no other place to hide in Lady Romeril’s ball, but this afforded protection the like of which Edie had not expected to find in such a crowded, overwhelming space. There was a scent here of sandalwood, blackcurrant, and vanilla, most delightful, filling her lungs and causing flickers of delight.

Quiet, and solitude. The chaise lounges looked particularly comfortable, frilly though they were in red taffeta, and the window—

“I do apologize,” said the man lounging by the window, an arm resting on the sill. “But this hiding spot is taken.”