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Or that was what Marcia had come to refer to it as. The Parade of Suffering.

Or, The Parade of Balls.

It was all really the same.

Polite affair after horrifying affair, Marcia wondered if the purpose wasn’t rehabilitating their family’s image and making a brave show but, rather, putting her through a public walk of shame.

And yet, following her meeting with Andrew in her father’s offices, and after reflecting a good deal on what had been casual words, she’d found herself eager to attend those infernal affairs. For one very specific reason—she was a woman on a mission.

Granted, she was on as much of a mission as she could be when surrounded by overprotective parents, and her parents’ friends, and her own friends.

Standing on the edge of the ballroom, Marcie was flanked by her parents, who were flanked by Marcia’s godparents, the Duke and Duchess of Crawford. Also joining them were the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge and the Duchess of Bainbridge’s sister and brother-in-law, the Earl and Countess of Stanhope. And the list went on.

Marcia stole a peek down the length of a very long, impressive line of powerful peers who’d lined up once more in a display of support.

Positioned as so many of them were had left a disproportionate number of guests on the side of the dance floor where Marcia now stood. A dance floor largely occupied by the powerful peers’ respective sons and daughters.

As if any of this could change anything for her.

No, because there was no changing anything for her. Just as there was no altering the truth of her existence. She’d been born of the ugliest sin, spawned from the seed of an evil man.

The bloom was off her rose, and the world knew she was illegitimate. All that remained were the ugly whispers, not about the one who’d sired her, but about Marcia herself.

Marcia, who’d only ever been polite and good and respectable.

And for what?

What had it all been for?

She’d hardly lived at all.

Well, that was at last at an end.

Or it would be if he would hurry up and show up to one respectable event.

She searched the crowd for that particular peer. To no avail.

“Whereishe?” she muttered.

“What was that?” her mother asked, pausing whatever she’d been discussing with the Duchess of Crawford.

Marcia fought a grimace. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” she assured, and her mother went back to her discussion with the duchess.

As it was, it had grown increasingly difficult to go sneaking off to some corner of her host’s households so she could escape it all.

Because, of course, her family had noted her wish to do that.

And they were suffocating her.

Her high-necked gown threatened to choke her, and she resisted the urge to claw at the fabric and rip it away so that she might properly breathe again.

And yet, for all the support they might manage to throw behind her, they still could not stop the unkind words.

As if on cue, the Countess of Witherspoon, one of Polite Society’s leading hostesses, passed close, giving Marcia a once-over, and then she spoke loud enough for Marcia to hear.

“With the reputation of that one’s mother andrealfather, they should be guarding her that closely.”

Marcia’s cheeks flamed hot.