***
The Wynchester carriage rolled to a stop at the end of a long queue.
“I’m going to be ill,” Chloe moaned.
“You’ll have to wait until later.” Tommy looked out of the window glumly. “We’re here.”
Chloe took an unsteady breath and reached for her basket of tricks.
Many years before, Graham had teased her for carrying a basket instead of a reticule. It wasn’t all of the time, she had retorted hotly, and besides, she’d like to see him hide a change of clothing and a stolen paperweight inside a tiny silk reticule.
The truth was, baskets held special meaning for Chloe. Her first interaction with one had been when she was abandoned at the orphanage, only a few days old. Since then, she had determined that the baskets in her life would contain items of value, of worth. If something was inside a basket, it was because it wasimportant, and she wanted to be certain she could find it again. To keep it with her at all times.
Tonight her basket contained cosmetic baubles that would help her pretend the York ball could not hurt her. That she did not need the Duke of Faircliffe. That she was better off without him. He should be crumpling to the floor in tears because he was the one who was missing what had been right in front of him.
She reached inside and pulled out an exquisite diadem of amethyst and gold.
Was there such a thing as a revenge tiara? She slapped it on her head and affixed it angrily in place. There. She’d float through the door, sparkle beneath the chandeliers, and march back outside to her carriage as soon as her presence had been registered by the one and only person who might actually notice.
If hedidn’tnotice…
No. She wouldn’t think about that.
What was the alternative? She could admit she possessed a substantial sum of money. But she did not want to “win” Lawrence that way. It would be no victory. Besides, dowries were for husbands. Chloe’s trust was designed to let her do asshepleased.
And what she wanted was to be chosen forherself, not her money.
Was that too much to ask?
She alighted from the carriage with her head held high and put each foot in front of the other all the way to the Yorks’ front door.
The party was absolute madness.
“Mrs. York must be in heaven,” she whispered to Tommy in reluctant awe. “Every one of Graham’s scandal columns will dub this night the ‘Crush of the Season.’”
“All other hostesses might as well surrender now,” Tommy agreed. “Even Great-Aunt Wynchester couldn’t make herself heard in this din.”
“Try.” Chloe nudged her sister forward. “If we have to be here, I’m at least going to eat some dessert.”
Tommy perked up. “Dessert?”
As they inched their way through the teeming masses, the music grew louder. Every window in the bustling ballroom was open to allow in fresh air, although the crowd was too dense for much circulation.
Tommy stopped in her tracks, her face gray. “There’s Philippa.”
“Is Faircliffe with her?”
“Not yet.”
“How does she look?” Chloe closed her eyes so as not to see. “Like someone who’s about to marry England’s most eligible duke, like it or not?”
That Philippa didn’t evenwantto marry Lawrence twisted the knife all the worse—not just for Chloe but for Lawrence and Philippa. What kind of marriage would that be? It sounded even worse than being alone.
“She looks beautiful,” Tommy whispered back, her voice strained. “She’s wearing a purple and azure gown with Antwerp lace. I’ve never seen her look prettier. Anyone would want to marry her.”
“Wonderful,” Chloe groaned. “Exactly the report I was hoping for.”
Tommy glanced at her sharply. “Do you wish her to be unwell?”
