Page 8 of The Lady Knows Best

Breaking an engagement was never a matter to be taken lightly. Had Daphne spouted off without thinking, written without reflecting on how her answer might affect the young woman in question? Oh, she had understood there were those in society who would choose to cast such a decision in an unfavorable light. Doubtless the young lady’s family was embarrassed, even displeased. It might be some time before the scandal died down enough for another gentleman to be willing to make her an offer.

But wretched?

Wasn’t Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square better off not bound in wedded misery?

And misery it would surely be. Particularly if Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square was actually Miss Grey. Because that would mean that the gentleman who’d made the scandalous wager was none other than . . .

Refusing to risk another glance in Lord Deveraux’s direction, Daphne grabbed her sister’s hand and dragged her toward the crowd of commiserating matrons, determined to see for herself. Daphne took some consolation in the certainty that Miss Grey’s letter had not been that of a brokenhearted woman. In fact, the gossips said the two had hardly even spoken to one another. Why, if Mr. Grey had not insisted his daughter get right back on the horse, as Daphne had heard one ballgoer explain in derisive tones, or if Lord Deveraux had simply chosen to find his entertainment elsewhere this evening, everything would have been fine.

But as Daphne and Bell pressed closer, the sight of the young woman’s tear-stained face was not exactly reassuring. Miss Grey looked, well . . . wretched. And Mrs. Grey was standing next to her, waving her fan and scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes as if hunting for the person who had advised her daughter to do such a shocking thing.

Had Daphne made a terrible mistake?

The lump of lead in her gut began to roll about until she feared she was going to be sick. “Bell,” she ground out from between clenched teeth. When that produced no response from her sister, presently craning her neck to get a better view of Miss Grey, Daphne jerked Bell’s arm and began to drag her in the opposite direction. “Bell, please. Let’s find Cami and leave.”

Bellis planted her feet. “Leave? The ball? I think not, sister dear. Need I remind you that my dance card is full?”

Dance?

It took Daphne a moment to recall that, of course, people would eventually resume all the ordinary activities planned for such an evening: dancing and flirting and gossiping about people other than Miss Grey and Lord Deveraux. And of course Bellis would want to be among them, enjoying every moment of her first London Season and the attention it had rightfully brought her. In her heart, Daphne did not want to rob her younger sister of the experiences she’d dreamed of.

But her stomach had other ideas.

Something of her distress must have been evident on her face, for Bell’s expression changed, softened. “Daph?” Concern wrinkled her brow. “We can go, if you want. The gentlemen will wait.”

Daphne would not have described her sister as selfish, exactly. Selflessness, however, was unexpected. Or maybe it wasn’t selflessness. Maybe Bell still had enough faith in fairy tales that she believed a handsome prince was simply her due.

And perhaps she was right.

Suddenly Daphne couldn’t bear to be responsible for delaying Bell’s happiness, certainly not on the heels of possibly destroying Miss Grey’s. Out of the corner of one eye, she spied French doors leading to a back balcony that ran the width of the house. “Air,” she gritted out, praying it would be enough to set her to rights.

Rimmed by ornate wrought iron railings and lit by a half-dozen torchiers, the balcony was blessedly empty at present.

“Shocking, really, what Miss Grey is being expected to endure,” ventured Bell as they stepped into the cool evening air. “I don’t blame you for wanting to get away from such an unpleasant scene.”

Daphne moved closer to Bell and the meager warmth of one of the flickering lights, but she did not speak until she’d taken another look around to make sure they were alone.

“It’s all my f-fault.” She was no longer sure whether she’d locked her jaw against the roiling in her belly or the chattering of her teeth.

“Nonsense,” Bellis reassured her airily. “I didn’t really fancy having my toes stepped on by Lord Cowell, anyway, and Mr. Bennett has already told me he’ll be at the Moncrieffs’ dinner party. I can explain then.”

“I m-mean,” Daphne hiccupped, “m-my fault about Miss Grey.”

Bell’s amber earbobs danced in the light as she shook her head. “I declare, Daph. It’s one thing to feel an overdeveloped sense of responsibility for your younger sister. Quite another to fancy you bear some blame for a stranger’s poor choices.”

Daphne drew a shaky breath. “You think it a p-poor choice, then, for her to refuse Lord Deveraux?”

“Well . . .” Bell rubbed a gloved fingertip over her chin as she pondered the matter. “It might not have been a poor choice to decline his offer. But to accept his proposal and then cry off? It won’t make her life easier, that’s for certain.”

“I refuse to believe that a se’ enight scandal is more difficult than being married forever to a notorious rake.”

“Our sister married a notorious rake,” Bell pointed out after a moment, “and she’s never been happier.”

Daphne knew it was true—knew, at least, that Cami was happy. She’d always found it more difficult to imagine Gabriel, Lord Ashborough, was really as bad as people had said; after all, he had played tea party with Daphne and Bell when they were young, and later with his own daughters. Impossible to imagine a true rake, like Lord Deveraux, sacrificing his dignity to please a child.

“Worst of all, people say her mind was changed by some silly advice column in Goode’s Guide to Misconduct.”

“Don’t call it that,” Daphne snapped, before she thought better of it.