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She lifted her chin and met his searching gaze with as steady a look as she could manage. “I found I could not marry the man my brother chose for me.”

* * * *

Perry paced the library when Wynford returned. “It’s no good,” Perry said, looking downcast. “All the gossip points to Major Ashton, a rakehell in his day, but the fellow’s alive, and as apt to stroll up Bond Street or show his face in a card room as you or I. In fact, I’m sure I saw him last week in the park on a bay hack with Sommersby.”

“And the general’s daughter?” Charles asked.

“Daughters,” said Perry. “Irina and Sophia.”

“Do we know which one caught the major’s eye? Are they both living? Married?” asked Charles.

Perry, who never forgot a bit of scandal, grinned at him. “Brilliant.” He went back to the notes on the desk. “The major pursues one of the girls, perhaps to her ruin...”

“Oh,” said Charles, “almost surely to her ruin.”

“And perhaps there is no redress. The English close ranks and protect the young officer from the consequences of his vile behavior, so the sister has reason to hate not only the man, but the nation.”

Charles nodded. He didn’t like it, but it looked to him as if the ruin of his own sister was at the heart of the marchioness’s scheme.

“A little more digging,” said Perry, “and we’ll know whether our marchioness is Sophia or Irina.” He went back to his papers.

“Perry, to whom did Dunraven want to marry his sister?”

“The man she refused, you mean?”

Charles nodded.

“Torrington, I think.”

The misery of a ball gone wrong is the more acute for the expectation of pleasure that preceded it.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 18

Until Harriet stood on the threshold of Lady Hardwicke’s ballroom and heard her old name announced, she did not fully realize the folly of saying yes to Wynford. She had told herself she would dance the two dances permitted and that in such a crowd at such a gathering no one would remark on the minor impropriety of a governess waltzing with a viscount. She had further convinced herself that a little vigilance on her part was all that was needed to protect Octavia from the missteps a girl might make at her first grand ball. She saw instantly that she was wrong on both counts.

At the decidedly spinsterish age of twenty-six, this was her first ball as much as it was Octavia’s. Lady Luxborough, in deference to Harriet’s scruples, had never asked her to attend a ball with Anne or Camille. Harriet’s knowledge of dancing came from serving as partner to each of her charges as they learned their steps, or playing for all of them at impromptu dance parties in the country. Now she saw she was as green as Octavia, as susceptible to the excitement and wretchedness a ball could produce.

And this was not any ball. Lady Hardwicke’s theatrical disposition was apparent at once. The ballroom was a play of light and dark with bright pools under the great chandeliers and shadowy recesses along the walls and under the great gallery for clandestine meetings. At each open door on the terrace side of the room stood small green groves of potted yew and fir trees scenting the air and beckoning guests to escape constraint in the darkness beyond. Enough mistletoe and holly hung from the chandeliers and wall sconces to satisfy a horde of ancient Druids gathered to celebrate the solstice. A dozen musicians played from a dais at one end of the grand room. Guests leaned together on benches in the shadows under the open gallery above. Ladies’ fans fluttered in a heated atmosphere of restless extravagance. Gowns were cut low, laughter was raucous, and champagne flowed. Proper conduct hadn’t a prayer. She clung to the arm Wynford offered her as they stood waiting to enter, and he leaned down to say in her ear, his breath disturbing her curls, “I see that I didn’t need to bring my mistletoe.”

A shiver went down her spine, and they stepped into the ballroom.

They stood just long enough for Harriet to lament her lack of acquaintance among Lady Hardwicke’s guests when the marchioness approached. In a dark green gown, the woman looked as if she had emerged from one of the groves of potted trees. Accompanying her was a young man in a scarlet-and-gold regimental jacket. Introductions were made.

Captain Fanshaw had the confident air of a man aware of his personal advantages: height, broad shoulders, abundant golden hair, and pleasing symmetry of his features marred only by a slight bruising on one cheek near his nose. Octavia beamed her entire satisfaction at his handsome appearance, while at Harriet’s side Wynford stood in frowning silence.

“Oh dear,” the marchioness said, casting a wry glance at Wynford’s waistcoat. “Purple?”

“Heliotrope,” replied Wynford with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

The marchioness raised a brow. “Octavia, you’d best keep apart from your brother lest he ruin the effect of your gown.”

“I doubt anyone will notice Wynford’s waistcoat,” said Fanshaw, “when he may look upon Miss Davenham’s dress.” He offered her a besotted gaze as if no one else existed.

Octavia cast him a doubting look in return. “Dear marchioness,” she said, “I trust you and Lady Harriet to keep my brother company.”

An expression of disdain crossed the marchioness’s face at the use of Harriet’s title, and the conversation grew awkward, as Captain Fanshaw offered Octavia compliments and Octavia tried to deflect his flattery. He seemed to have a low estimate of female intelligence, and at last Octavia simply suggested that they dance.