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Their situation was dire, and it would not be gone by morning, nor any day soon if she did not act. Indeed, their very future relied upon her. If that meant being the silent, eyelash-fluttering, doll of a woman that gentlemen desired to marry, then so be it—that was what, from now on, she would be.

I will save us, Papa. No matter what it costs me.

She observed a small cluster of doll-like young ladies who gossiped nearby, hoping for inspiration.

“No, no, he is here! I saw him myself,” one whispered excitedly.

“You would do well to ignore him,” another replied tartly. “No good can come of even looking at that rogue.”

The first sighed. “How can one not look? He is… divine.”

“He is the very opposite,” the second chided. “Just a dance with him would be enough to mar your reputation.”

The third young woman leaned in close to her two friends. “But would it not be worth it, just to be so close to such a man? Goodness, I read the scandal sheets, and I know I should be appalled, but I find myself…”

“Utterly jealous?” the first blurted out, descending into giddy giggles.

“Precisely!” the third woman said, grinning, while the dour-faced second rolled her eyes.

“What am I to do with the pair of you? You will end up in the scandal sheets yourselves if you are not careful. If I must chain you up to save you, I shall.”

The first sighed. “Oh, what a pleasure it would be to be his wife. There can be no scandal if a marriage quickly follows.”

“Yes, but he is not the marrying kind,” the second pointed out. “If he married every lady he… dallied with, he would have an entire herd of wives. Yet, he remains unwed. That ought to tell you everything you need to know about the fellow.”

Valeria did not know who they were talking about, but he sounded wretched.

Definitely a gentleman that she ought to avoid if she was to stand a chance of marrying before the end of the Season, for her reputation could not take any further diminishing.

She had not done anything dishonorable or scandalous, of course, but her value had depreciated with age and her acerbic tongue.

“If you do not make a suitable—I repeat, suitable— match, you will have to marry a baronet and live an impoverished existence, scraping together coins for a mere bonnet,” the second lady warned, and though it was directed at her friends, it struck Valeria too.

“Might you excuse me for a moment, Papa?” she asked, suddenly too warm, the air in the room too stifling. Every breath felt like she was trying to inhale thick cream into her lungs.

Aaron raised a worried eyebrow. “Are you well?”

“Quite well,” she lied. “I just need to powder my nose.”

His expression relaxed a little. “I will wait for you here.”

She smiled and headed back out into the hallway, though she did not turn right toward the powder room, but left, back into the ballroom. Weaving around the other merrymakers, keeping her head down, she did not stop until she reached the garden doors.

The first kiss of cool night air caressed her feverish cheeks, and as she moved quickly across the terrace and down the steps into the shadows of the garden proper, each breath became easier.

She slowed as she passed the towering cypress trees, standing like slumbering sentinels along the main gravel path that cut through the garden, the white stones reflecting the moonlight.

The scent was remarkable, earthy and exotic, reminding her of far-off places she had never been to.

Nostalgia for countries she had only dreamed about.

In a daze, focusing on nothing but the steady draw of her breathing and the aroma of the trees, she did not pay much attention to where she was walking. As such, she did not realize quite how far she had wandered until she felt the heel of her shoe sink into mud instead of gravel.

Oh, for pity’s sake! That is the last thing I need—to be the girl traipsing muck through the Mawdesley’s residence. She paused to see what could be done, trying her best to scrape away the mud on a tuft of grass.

At that moment, she heard voices, muffled by the foliage and the rustle of wind through the leaves. Low, secretive murmurings, coming from somewhere nearby.

She pricked her ears, trying to make out the words, but the voices were too quiet: one distinctly sweet and feminine, the other rumbling and masculine. The whisper of lovers, perhaps. Certainly, the whispers of two people who did not wish to be overheard or, indeed, discovered.

I ought to leave them be… After all, it was none of her business what other people got up to in the dark, during a ball.

Glancing down the avenue between the cypress trees, squinting toward the lights of the manor house, her heart dropped like a rock as she noted shapes moving in her direction. In the clear moonlight, she spied an all-too familiar headpiece: gaudy feathers bobbing and swaying in the breeze.

Phyllis, Duchess of Levon, infamous gossip and the sometime bane of Valeria’s existence, with two of her equally nosy friends.

And trailing just behind the three matrons, Phyllis’ bitter daughter, Iphigenia, who would relish nothing more than destroying the decency and reputation of another woman.

Anything to improve her dwindling chances of finding a husband seven years after her debut, for she and Valeria were in the same predicament.

Wretches, all… Those women were known for patrolling the gardens at a manor ball for scandal, eavesdropping and observing from shady corners, teasing information out of inebriates and those with loose lips.

Phyllis, especially, was eager to gain any knowledge that could aid her floundering daughter, eradicating some of the younger competition.

Spurred on by pure instinct, Valeria ducked between two of the cypress trees, seeking out whoever belonged to the furtive voices in the darkness. The woman in the pair evidently did not know the danger she was in, unaware that she needed to protect herself.

So, if that woman could not defend herself against the harpies coming in her direction, Valeria would just have to do it for her.