Just keep running. Don’t stop. Don’t cry. Not here.
She kept her head down, chin trembling, lips pressed together in silent desperation.
Where was her mother? Where was Charles?
She didn’t look for them. She couldn’t bear to.
Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall—not yet, not where anyone could see. Not where her humiliation could be neatly tied with a bow and carried away for supper-table amusement. Not when she still had an ounce of dignity left to her name.
The French doors loomed ahead—her only salvation. Beyond them, the promise of darkness, of cool air, and of solitude. The terrace would be empty, wouldn’t it? Surely everyone was still inside, all eyes glued to the wreckage Edward had wrought.
Her hand fumbled for the door handle. She pushed it open, and the welcome rush of fresh night air kissed her cheeks.
Relief surged in her chest.
And then—
Her foot caught.
The heel of her slipper caught awkwardly on the threshold, twisting her step. Her ankle gave way beneath her with a sickening pull. She cried out—a sharp, startled sound torn from her throat—as she stumbled forward into the open air.
The ground rose to meet her far too quickly. Her shoulder struck first, jarring her, and then her hip, and finally her palms slapped the cold stone, scraping through her gloves. The sharp sting of pain shot through her leg as she crumpled to the terrace floor.
It was over in a breath.
Pain bloomed from her ankle, white-hot and immediate. She curled onto her side with a strangled sob, her skirts tangled beneath her, the night air suddenly bitter against her flushed skin.
And then—nothing.
Nothing but silence, and cold, and the cold, distant murmur of gossiping voices within the ballroom—rising now, louder, a tide of speculation swelling in her wake.
No one followed.
No footsteps echoed behind her.
Arthur hadn’t come.
The truth of it settled over her like frost. She bit her lip, hard, trying to force back the tears that threatened again, but it was no use.
She had failed.
Not only when it came to their deception. Not merely at playing the game society had thrust upon her since she was old enough to curtsy. No—she had failed herself. She had allowed hope to take root, to stretch upward toward the light, foolishly believing that perhaps,perhaps, the affection she had begun to feel for Arthur Beaumont might be something more than shared rebellion. That it might bereal.
She’d told herself it was all a performance. She’d told herself the blush in her cheeks was for the audience.
But now? Now, lying sprawled and hurt beneath the stars, with the chill of the stone leeching through her silk gown and the sting of humiliation louder than the throbbing in her ankle and grazed palms—she knew.
It hadneverbeen pretend. Not for her.
And yet Arthur had not defended her. Not properly. Not quickly enough. His hesitation had been a knife. His silence, a second betrayal. And Edward’s gloating smirk still haunted her vision.
Surely he doesn’t want to remain in that ballroom after that performance? Why has he not followed me out? And why has no one else come? Am I that despised by the ton? Do they really believe Edward’s words?
She swallowed hard, dragging herself upright with a wince, propping her back against the balustrade. Her ankle throbbed with every movement, and she could feel it beginning to swell within her slipper. A dull ache spread along her leg, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
The terrace stretched out before her in quiet indifference. It didn’t care that she had been shunned in front of all society. Neither did the night sky, burning brightly with a thousand stars.
The world kept turning on its axis, but this would never be forgotten. It would follow her around until the traitorous ton found someone else to mock or gasp about. Until her scandal became less scandalous than someone else’s.
