Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

" M y dear Lady Adeline, whatever are you wearing? I dare say, that gown might have been fashionable… oh, five Seasons ago?"

Adeline froze, her hand tightening on her fan as Lady Beatrice Forsyth's saccharine voice cut through the general hum of the soirée. She turned around slowly, plastering a polite smile on her face as she met the lady's malicious gaze.

"Lady Beatrice, how kind of you to take an interest in my attire," she replied, her voice steady despite the knot forming in her stomach. "I find that true elegance is timeless, don't you agree?"

Lady Beatrice's lips curled into a sneer. "Oh, of course. Though I suppose when one has… limited options, one must make do."

Adeline felt her cheeks burn, acutely aware of the curious glances being cast their way. She had known attending Lady Windhurst's soirée would be difficult, but she hadn't anticipated such blatant cruelty so early in the evening.

"Adeline, darling," her father's voice cut in, his tone overly bright. "I believe Lord Welbourne was asking after you earlier. Shall we seek him out?"

Grateful for the interruption, Adeline nodded. "Of course, Father. If you'll excuse us, Lady Beatrice."

As they moved away, Adeline could hear Lady Beatrice's tittering laugh—no doubt the woman was making some new joke at her expense with the gathering crowd. She took a deep breath, willing her racing heart to slow down.

"You shouldn't let them get to you," Lord Brenton murmured, though his eyes darted nervously around the room. Then, as if suddenly remembering something of great importance, he cleared his throat and said in a louder, more cheerful voice, "Ah, did I mention that Lord Pembrook has acquired a new stallion? Magnificent beast, I hear."

Adeline bit back a bitter retort. Easy for him to say when he wasn't the one bearing the brunt of Society's disdain. Instead, she merely nodded, allowing him to lead her through the crowded ballroom.

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine a different scenario—one where she entered the room and was greeted with warm smiles and a genuine welcome. Where her wit and charm would be appreciated, and she could engage in stimulating conversation without the constant, crushing weight of judgment.

But as they approached a group of gentlemen, reality came crashing down. Conversations faltered, eyes widened, and more than one gentleman suddenly found their glass fascinating.

"Lord Brenton," one brave soul ventured, pointedly addressing her father. "How good of you to join us this evening."

"Lord Denbrook," Lord Brenton replied, clapping the man on the shoulder. "Capital to see you, old boy. I trust you remember my daughter, Lady Adeline?"

Lord Denbrook's eyes skittered over Adeline, barely acknowledging her presence. "Ah, yes. Lady Adeline. How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you, my lord," Adeline replied, dipping into a small curtsy. "I hope you're enjoying the evening?"

But Lord Denbrook had already turned back to her father and launched into a discussion about horse racing, effectively excluding her from the conversation.

Adeline stood there, feeling increasingly invisible as the minutes ticked by. She longed to interject, to share her knowledge of horseflesh—gleaned from years of reading and observation—but she knew her contributions would be unwelcome at best and scorned at worst.

"Oh! How clumsy of me!"

Adeline turned just in time to see a wave of red punch flying towards her. She stumbled back, but not quickly enough to save her gown from the splash of liquid.

A hush fell over the nearby crowd as she stood there, punch dripping from her skirts.

Lady Margaret Ashworth, the culprit, covered her mouth with a gloved hand, her eyes glittering with poorly concealed mirth.

"My deepest apologies, Lady Adeline," she simpered. "How terribly careless of me. Though perhaps it makes your gown look better? A touch of color does wonders, don't you think?"

Titters of laughter rippled through the gathering crowd. Adeline felt her chest tighten. This was too much, too cruel, even by the ton's standards.

"If you'll excuse me," she choked out, "I believe I need some fresh air."

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and fled. She barely registered the whispers and stares that followed her—her only thought was to escape the suffocating air of the ballroom.

She burst through the French doors leading to the garden, gulping in the cool night air as if she'd been drowning. The manicured paths of Lady Windhurst's garden stretched out before her, bathed in moonlight and mercifully empty of prying eyes.

Adeline stumbled forward, her legs carrying her deeper into the garden's shadowed recesses. She found herself beside an ornate fountain, its gentle burble providing a soothing counterpoint to her ragged breathing.

Only then, hidden from view and serenaded by the splash of water, did she allow her carefully constructed mask to crumble. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she gripped the edge of the fountain, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

How much more of this could she endure? How many more snubs, cruel jests, and ‘accidents' must she suffer before her exile to Scotland? At that moment, the prospect of disappearing into the Scottish countryside seemed less like a punishment and more like a blessed relief.

As her sobs subsided, replaced by a hollow ache in her chest, Adeline straightened. She wiped at her tears, wincing as her fingers brushed against her scars. Those marks that had come to define her in Society's eyes, overshadowing everything else she was or could be.

For a wild moment, she considered simply leaving—walking out of the garden, away from the soirée, away from London and its cruelty.

Her breath caught in her throat. There, at the far end of the garden, stood a high stone wall. In the silvery moonlight, it looked almost inviting, a barrier between this world of cruelty and judgment and…

Freedom. Escape.