Prologue

London, England, early December 1771 (or a variation thereof)

B eatrice Hartley, eldest daughter to Baron Benton, was absolutely certain her heart would burst at any moment. With love or joy or excitement, she could not quite say. Perhaps it was all of them. Of course, she could not deny the nervous tingle that chased itself across her skin, making her hands tremble and her teeth gnaw upon her lower lip. Yes, she was definitely a bit nervous as well. Yet there was no need to be; after all, he loved her.

Following her parents into the large ballroom, Beatrice craned her neck, her eyes eager to catch a glimpse of him, Lord Strumpton. With his tall stature and the dark shine of his almost black hair, he stood out wherever he went. Yet it was the sparkling green of his eyes that dazzled Beatrice like nothing ever had before. He knew how to smile with his entire face, and she felt her knees grow weak at the mere memory of it.

Lord Tennyson's ball appeared to be a crushing success, his festively decorated townhouse sparkling with the joy of the season. Every corner of the grand ballroom was packed with guests, their laughter ringing in the air as they danced to the melody of the orchestra by the terrace doors. Glittering decorations adorned the walls while twinkling lights shone from every corner. The noise felt like a hum in Beatrice's ears, though, and for a moment, she was tempted to cover them with her hands and block out the sound. Of course, her parents would frown upon that, and so she endured the noise, her head still turning this way and that, her eyes eager to spy the man who possessed her heart.

"Is something wrong with your neck?" Beatrice's mother inquired with a frown upon her face. "Indeed, you look quite odd standing there like that." She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Is something the matter, dear?"

Quickly regaining her composure, Beatrice fixed a polite smile on her face. "No, nothing is wrong, Mother. It is simply so… so very exciting to be here. I don't quite know where to look first."

Her mother patted her hand, a warm smile upon her face. "I quite understand, dear. Yet it is not becoming for a young lady to be craning her neck like this. Above all, it is important to maintain an outward appearance of grace and composure."

"Of course, Mother. I shall do my best."

Beatrice's mother cast her a reassuring smile before she hurried off, quickly vanishing into a circle of friends, their voices adding to the hum in Beatrice's ears.

"I believe Miss Carlisle is over there," Beatrice's father remarked with a nod of his head toward the other end of the ballroom. "She seems most eager for your company."

Beatrice nodded, grateful for this opportunity to slip away. Of course, she had come to this ball tonight eager for another's company, yet judging from the excited expression upon Marianne's face, Beatrice knew she could not simply pretend she had not seen her. In truth, Beatrice wished she could share her news with her best friend; still, it would be wise to wait and speak to Lord Strumpton first.

"There you are," Marianne exclaimed, her dark curls dancing upon her shoulders as she all but bounced upon her feet. "Is this not the most exciting ball you've ever attended?" She clasped her hands together, beaming up at Beatrice.

Of course, Beatrice nodded. Yet she could not keep herself from gazing beyond her friend's shoulder, her eyes still searching the bustling room. "It certainly is."

Fortunately, Marianne possessed the ability to hold entire conversations by herself. Only the occasional nod or monosyllabic response was necessary to keep her friend going, words rolling off her tongue without pause. And so, Beatrice remained by her friend's side, utterly unaware of the words that poured from her lips. Instead, her gaze swept the many dancers as well as those strolling around the large, vaulted chamber, exchanging pleasantries here and there. Indeed, she had never seen so many people in one place, their voices almost deafening.

And then Beatrice saw him, and her heart stuttered to a halt.

As enchanting and dazzling as she remembered, Lord Strumpton—Eugene!—waltzed across the dance floor only a few paces from where Beatrice stood, a golden-haired beauty in his arms.

Beatrice would have easily thought it no more than a societal obligation—after all, gentlemen often danced with a myriad of young ladies at these events, did they not?—if it had not been for the smile upon Lord Strumpton's face.

Indeed, it spoke not merely of politeness or even simple amusement. No, it was the sort of smile that had won him her heart months ago. It was the sort of smile that lit up his entire face, illuminating his dark brown eyes in a way that Beatrice felt certain she could see into his soul. It was the sort of smile she had been certain Lord Strumpton had reserved only for her.

All of a sudden, the room felt much too crowded, the air too thin and too hot. Beatrice's knees grew weak, yet not in the wonderful way they had before. Waves of nausea rolled through her middle, and she all but stumbled backward, her legs unable to support her.

"Are you well?" Marianne inquired with a worried expression upon her face before she clasped Beatrice's arm and led her to a row of chairs by the far wall. "You look pale."

Beatrice hardly knew what to say as her heart pounded in her ears. She could barely breathe, let alone form a coherent sentence. Oh, what a fool she had been.

Indeed, she had come here tonight with no thought for concern. Perhaps she had been a little nervous, but she had never truly felt worry, not even the slightest touch of uncertainty.

Now, she did.

Once I tell him , Beatrice thought, will he propose? Only moments ago, Beatrice had been certain of the outcome of this night. Now, she was no longer. Now, fear slowly crawled into her heart, tensing every muscle in her body. Does he truly love me? Or was I mistaken? Over the past few months, they had exchanged secret messages, whispered words of love to one another and—quite shockingly, yes!—met in private with no chaperone present. Of course, Beatrice had been hesitant at first, concerned for her reputation; but Eugene's deep devotion had eventually won him her heart… and she had thrown caution to the wind.

"He is a gentleman." The words slipped from Beatrice's lips without thought. "He will do the honorable thing." Her right hand settled upon her belly, where waves of nausea still rolled.

"Pardon me?" Marianne inquired, leaning closer. "What did you say?" She cast a disapproving glance at the orchestra nearby. "I'm afraid I did not hear you."

Beatrice shook her head, barely able to look at her friend. He will propose, will he not? Yes, he will. I simply have to speak with him. Yes, all will be well. I'm certain of it.

Yet as Beatrice continued to watch the man she loved dance with another woman, her heart grew heavy. Oh, God, what have I done?