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Olivia’s cheeks ached as she smiled and nodded along to Mr. Millwood’s droning voice. Behind her, a harpist plucked a gentle melody. Each strumming note sent a throb of pain through her temple. She would have made an excuse to depart from Mr. Millwood, but her position near the musicians gave her a near-perfect view of the ballroom. As such, she was able to track Constance’s movements without appearing to do so.
She reached into her pocket and flipped a worn shilling over and over in her fingers.
The repetitive motion soothed her, although it was not as effective as shifting her weight from foot to foot. That had drivenher governess to distraction. It was also not something Lady Allen would have been seen doing.
Mr. Millwood turned his head as another young woman in a scandalously low-cut dress walked past them, and she took the opportunity to make her apologies and rush off before he could claim her for the next dance. Her head ached so fiercely, she was uncertain she could finish a dance without tripping over her own feet.
Not that it mattered. She had only attended to encourage Constance to socialize.
As she passed Mrs. Millwood, the woman covered her face with her fan and giggled. Her companion, a woman Olivia did not recognize, shushed her but then began giggling as well.
Their laughter was at her expense, of course. That much was obvious. She had received many such reactions since leaving the duke’s and duchess’s side. Without the novelty of their presence, she became again the target of whispers, it seemed.
“Lady Allen!”
Olivia stopped, then forced a smile, even as her neck screamed in protest. She turned to see Baron and Baroness Mason. Her shoulders immediately eased. Lady Mason was one of her earliest success stories. Her match and the following wedding had been the talk of the season. Even the queen had attended and expressed her appreciation.
Except Lady Mason wasn’t smiling. Her usually sparkling brown eyes were downcast and she carefully clutched her husband’s arm. Despite the cloying warmth in the ballroom, she wore elbow-length white gloves and a cotton fichu embroidered with white flowers.
“Lady Allen,” Lord Mason said, baring his teeth in a grin. He tugged the lapel of his red corduroy suit jacket, which barely disguised his bulging stomach. “I am heartened to see you, despite those nasty rumors.” He leaned in, his dark-browneyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her shiver. “I was a friend of the earl, and I do not believe for a moment that a mere chit such as yourself could have overwhelmed him. Those scandal rags have no shame.” He patted his wife’s hand on his sleeve. “Rest assured, we remain on your side.”
Before she could express her thanks, the harpist behind him tipped her instrument over and it clattered to the ground with athud.
Lady Mason yelped.
“Merely an accident,” Lord Mason said. He tugged her closer, and for a moment, Lady Mason’s glove slid down, revealing a striped pattern of bruises along her arm.
A pattern Olivia knew too well.
Cold washed over her as she remembered how her wardrobe had changed over the course of her marriage, how her favorite dresses with their delicate cap sleeves and plunging necklines had become impossible to wear. How she had set aside her fine, lace gloves in favor of silk so no one would see the marks the earl had placed upon her.
By the time Olivia had processed what she had seen, Lady Mason was gone, absorbed into the crowd with her husband.
What had gone wrong?
The last time she had seen Lady Mason, the woman had gushed about her husband. All signs had indicated she’d been in love, and her comments had suggested Lord Mason had felt the same.
Olivia made for the doors, not caring when her shoulder bumped a man’s arm.
Lady Mason had expressed concerns about Lord Mason before she had walked down the aisle. She had called her betrothed “intense” and “intimidating.” Having seen many young women transform from blushing brides to bundles ofnerves when the altar had beckoned, Olivia had dismissed the young Miss Culter’s worries and reassured her Lord Mason had been her perfect match.
She had pressed more than a dozen girls into matrimony, assured of the safety of her choices. She had never considered some of the men her girls had married were like the Earl of Allen.
How many of them had she failed? How many of them had coped the same way she had, by carefully developing a mask to use within society, to hide the truth of the abuse that occurred in their own homes?
She had almost reached the door when a hand caught her arm and forced her to a stop.
“Come with me,” Thel said.
“I-I cannot,” she said.
“Come with me,” he repeated, and the thread of anger in his voice took her breath away. She dropped her gaze and followed demurely behind him, out of the ballroom and down a hallway. He swept her through an open door and followed behind.
Her head pounded, her mouth was dry, and she was certain she owed apologies to half a dozen ladies for bumping them in her rush to depart the ballroom. But minor inconveniences were nothing compared to the hell Lady Mason was living.
Thel clutched her upper arms and shook her gently. “Olivia, look at me.”
