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“But of course.”
As the redhead led him to the dance floor, he craned his head back toward the blonde. Masculine satisfaction swelled in his chest at the disappointment etching her face.
* * *
The earlier excitementthat had bubbled up within her settled to a low thrum. Sorry to have lost Timothy’s company when his new dance partner pulled him away, Priscilla hoped for a distraction from her preoccupied mind. Scanning the room, she noticed a group of women huddled together at the refreshment table.
Perhaps another glass of lemonade would serve as an excuse to work her way into the enclave of women and gather a bit of gossip. With care to appear as if she was not eavesdropping—which in fact she truly was—she sipped the glass of lemonade and perked up her ears.
Among the group were two older women. Their graying hair and large bosoms draped in strands of pearls gave testament to both their age and station. One of them nodded vigorously, apparently agreeing with what someone else had said.
“It’s true,’ the woman said. “I heard it from my lady’s maid, who heard it from Lord Cartwright’s footman.”
Priscilla straightened at the mention of her father.
“Although I don’t always trust a servant’s word, I’m concerned my maid is becoming a little too familiar with Cartwright’s man. I may have to put my foot down and insist she no longer keep company with him. I would hate to lose an excellent servant simply because a footman seduced her away from me.”
Priscilla wanted to stamp her foot and tell the old biddy to get back to what she had heard. Who cared about the servants’ love lives? Well, she supposed the servants did, but that was neither here nor there. Thank heaven one of the other women brought the gossiping woman back to the matter at hand.
“Such news is disconcerting. We should warn our sons to be most cautious should they see her. Such a disgrace to theton.Why, she’s nothing but a scheming doxy.”
Who?
“She should have stayed in the country with her mother and away from polite society. What she put our dear duke through is unforgivable.”
Oh!
With blinding clarity, Priscilla needed no further explanation of whom they spoke. The lemonade, although sweetened with the finest sugar, soured in her stomach and threatened to make another appearance.
All eyes in the group turned to her as she gave a tiny, choked gurgle. The old gossip reached out, placing a hand on Priscilla’s arm. “My dear, are you quite all right?”
Unable to force the words, Priscilla simply nodded. Tears welled in her eyes, her chest constricting with each nasty word bouncing around in her head.
Doxy.
Disgrace.
Warn our sons.
Her head spun, and she found it hard to breathe. She choked out a strangled cry.
A younger, dark-haired woman, who had been standing nearby but not part of the group, reached out. “Are you certain you’re not ill, my dear? I could fetch Ha—the duke.”
“No.” She shook her head frantically, realizing the woman was the duchess herself. Who else would refer to him as Harry in front of a group of gossiping busybodies?
She pushed past the group and fought her way through the crowds, desperate to find the exit and a quiet room where she could safely fall apart. Heads turned as she bumped into unsuspecting guests, but she didn’t bother to stop and apologize. Why should she when they all hated her so much already?
On shaky limbs, she stumbled out into the hallway and searched for an empty room. Light spilled from a room to her left, and she raced toward it. When she placed her hand on the half-open doorway, widening the entry, a gasp sounded from within.
Quickly backing out, she muttered an apology and turned back into the hallway. At the end of the long passage, a door stood open, the room cast in shadows from a single lit candle. She hurried inside, not bothering to shut the door, hoping the darkness would be sufficient protection from any possible intruders.
Her hands trembled as she undid the ties holding the beautiful mask in place. Wetness pooled on both her cheeks and the inside of the mask. She wiped at her tear-stained skin, the action useless—each swipe immediately followed by a guttural sob and fresh tears.
Why did she ever think she could re-enter London society? Had she really believed that a few short years would erase her shame? It would appear that the ugly blot on her reputation was as difficult to remove as ink spilled on a white gown.
And although she was loathe to admit it, her heart sank knowing perhaps Mr. Netherborne, the countryside, and sheep were her only future.
CHAPTER 12—UNMASKED
