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Women are told from their infancy, and taught by the example of their mothers, that a little knowledge of human weakness, justly termed cunning, softness of temper, OUTWARD obedience, and a scrupulous attention toa puerile kind of propriety, will obtain for them the protection of man; and should they be beautiful, everything else is needless.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

The most interesting—and most exhausting—thing about the London season was undoubtedly the balls and parties. They were incessant, sometimes two or three in a night, and the whole point was for any unmarried person to see and to be seen.

Beauty, breeding, and wealth were revered.

The diamond of the first water often embodied all of those. I should know—I was chosen last year after my presentation at court. God rest Queen Charlotte’s soul, though by all accounts, the ball would carry on in her memory. Despite the charm I had to employ to be the season’s diamond, I’d come to resent the unwanted mantle, along with all its heavy, unrealistic expectations—that the diamond would make the most exceptional match, that every young lady should aspire to be so beautiful and perfect. But little did they know, my efforts were devoted to avoiding any kind of match.

Even during the months leading up to the spring season when Parliament was in session the week after Easter, country parties abounded, with the goal of creating possible matches before the real frenzy of the marriage mart began in late April. Hence, this ball at Lady Rosalin’s parents’ home in Mayfair to celebrate the start of the season was crowded.

I stared at the beautiful Asian girl, best friend to my future sister-in-law, Lady Ela. She had become so much more confident in the past two years. Rosalin used to be the favorite victim of a notorious bully who had hoodwinked the whole ton, and she had fought her way out of that girl’s shadow with Ela’s help. No one missed the social-climbing Poppy Landers, least of all me. She had been toxic and obsessed with my brother and was the reason I kept my circle of friends small and tight. Trust was a rare commodity in our world, especially with most of the debutantes desperate to become an Original or the next queen bee. The competition was, undoubtedly, cutthroat.

“Lady Zenobia,” an amused voice said. “How interesting you look tonight. That contraption has you resembling…a giant meringue tart.”

I peered up at my older sibling and forced down a bark of laughter. Keston wasn’t wrong in his comparison. “Begone with you, Brother. Don’t you have a soon-to-be marchioness to annoy?” Until our father died and passed on the ducal title to his male heir, Keston went by the Marquess of Ridley. In a few short months— finally, given the delay from the yearlong mourning period when our grandfather passed—he and Ela would marry, and she’d receive her own courtesy title of marchioness.

Keston smirked. “I almost didn’t believe Ela when she said you could barely get out of the carriage and through the entrance doors. I gather you’re determined to be the coal of the season instead of its diamond?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea of what you mean,” I replied with a dismissive toss of my head.

“No? Then why are you hiding out in this cramped little nook instead of dancing like the rest of your friends and charming the masses?”

Keston, the rotter, knew me far too well. Smoothing the scowl from my brow, I glanced to where Lalita and Greer appeared to be having the time of their lives in a rousing quadrille. Though neither of them had my particular problem. Greer had been engaged since infancy, but that didn’t stop her from living on her terms. And Lalita…well, an excellent marriage was needed thanks to her grasping aunt and uncle who craved social elevation. She had two younger sisters, who would only benefit if she made a splendid match, so she was more open to the idea of being courted than I was. Then again, I did not have the burden of younger siblings.

Keston shook his head with a laugh and glanced around the narrow space. “How did you even get in here? I assume a bust or statue might have been in this alcove at one point?”

“Persistence,” I said. “And I needed a break.”

Lady Rosalin had had a horrified look on her face upon first glance but was much too polite to comment about my appearance. Her mother had simply lifted her brows in surprise. Thank heavens my own parents had another event to attend. Otherwise, I would not have been allowed to leave the house dressed as ghastly as I was.

A giggle escaped my lips. “If you continue to annoy me, Kes, I will be sure to save this for your wedding. Wouldn’t that be the talk of the town?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” he said but laughed. “You love Ela too much.”

He was right. I did adore my future sister-in-law.

Tossing my head, I smoothed the rather execrable ensemble I had chosen. The pale cream color complemented my bronze curls and deep golden-brown skin as most shades did, but that was as good as it got. Layers upon layers of tulle doubled the space I normally occupied, and its unflattering shape meant that I did indeed favor a stiff-peaked dessert. One made with salt instead of sugar.

I grinned. Knowing three of my rejected suitors from last season fully intended to renew their suits, I’d made sure to make myself as unpalatable as possible.

My fellow Lady Knights had cackled when I’d modeled the gown and told them my plan to shock and disgust, Greer snorting so hard that she’d toppled over. Nori had befittingly dubbed me the Queen of the Meringue Monsters. The gown had seemed like such a great idea at the time, but it would be a lie if I didn’t admit I had regrets. This eyesore was as hot as an oven, and I was roasting. I opened my fan and waved it like I was on fire.

“Hullo, Zia,” Ela said, joining my brother, her hazel eyes wide with horror.

“Don’t say a word,” I warned, fanning harder. “Clearly, I did not think this through well enough.” My scowl reappeared as I took in Ela’s two-piece silk gown in a gorgeous Indian style that bared the tiniest sliver of her stomach. I gritted my teeth in absolute envy. My stomach was currently drowning under perspiration and excessive beading.

“Very well. I’ll keep my opinions to myself,” she said, hiding her grin. “Your face is alarmingly red. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Drops of sweat rolled down my spine. “Did the temperature just go up a million degrees?”

“It is warm in here,” she said, and squinted at the balcony doors on the other side of the room. “More people have arrived. Perhaps we should escape to the terrace? Though I’m not certain you’ll be able to fit through the doors.” She eyed the width of my dress more closely. “How many petticoats are you wearing?”

“Five.”

“Good God, Zia!” She burst into giggles. “Well, no one can call you incapable of committing. Although, is the idea of an engagement truly so bad?”

“You know I don’t wish to wed,” I said. “At least, not right now. I want to experience the world before I’m handed off like chattel to the highest bidder.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that. Your brother hardly treats me like chattel.” Her mouth curled in a sardonic tilt, and her eyes sparkled. “He knows exactly what would happen if he did. My alter ego would make a reappearance, and he’d regret ever speaking.”

“Luckily, I treasure both versions of you,” Keston said with a charming wink that made me roll my eyes.

Everyone in London knew the story of Lady Ela returning two years ago in disguise as a wealthy heiress to take down her former best friend turned nemesis, who’d had designs upon my brother and ruling the ton. I’d always seen through Poppy’s machinations, and while Ela’s revenge plan had almost cost her everything—her friends, her social standing, and a second chance with Keston—it was wonderful to see them en route to a happily ever after. I supposed love wasn’t so bad.

Then again, my heart hadn’t been on the line.

No, my heart was in a lockbox, currently suffocating to death under fifty layers of tulle.

That reminded me of my current circumstance. Until the dancing set was completed, I was trapped in this furnace of an alcove.

In a normal dress, I might have been able to slip by unnoticed along the periphery of the ballroom floor. But if I attempted to do that in this unsightly gown, the result would be that of a bowling ball cleaving through bowling pins.

“Kes, go fetch your sister a large glass of water,” Ela said, eyeing me and taking out her own fan and flicking it rapidly in my direction.

I shot her a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“A pitcher if you can manage it,” she added as Keston kissed her cheek in an overt display of affection that would have ordinarily made me gag, but I was much too hot to cast judgment on their nauseatingly sweet love affair.

After he left, Ela’s serious gaze met mine. “This will be your second season. You do realize that all eyes will be upon you and any match you make? It doesn’t matter what you wear. In fact, I bet that half the young ladies here will be commissioning dresses like yours from their modistes within the week. Their mamas will all think it’s some new fashionable style by the trendsetting, beautiful Lady Zenobia Osborn, last season’s diamond.”

“Ugh. I should leave before that happens.”

Every girl here should be smuggled a copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Women didn’t have to cater to the rules set by men to compete to be the most beautiful, the most elegant, and the most sumptuously dressed. But the late Queen Charlotte had uplifted that archaic way of thinking by pitting us young women against each other every single season when we’d had to be presented at court. We were born and bred to not think for ourselves, to never question the status quo, to never set one foot out of line.

“Honestly, all of this is exhausting, isn’t it?” I muttered. “This constant performance as if we’re nothing but brainless dolls in pretty ball gowns. I’m sick of it. Life would be so much simpler if I were the daughter of a shoe cobbler.”

Ela bumped my hip with hers. “I know what it’s like to have little money to your name. Your challenges would be different but still present. Whether you’re the daughter of a merchant or marquess, you are expected to marry and not be a burden to your family. If you lived modestly, you might be forced to work less-than-favorable jobs.”

“I’m not afraid of work,” I said.

Ela had the audacity to snort. “Zia, you’ve never worked a day in your life. When I was at Hinley, I scrubbed chamber pots whenever I went against the Price sisters, who taught lessons at the school, which was often.” I wrinkled my nose. Ela had been sent away to a seminary in northern England when Poppy had fabricated a story that Ela had been compromised by a local boy, thus ruining her reputation. I’d never believed Poppy. But in our world, a man’s word was everything. And that boy, the vicar’s nephew, had lied through his teeth that Ela’s virtue had been taken.

“I could do it,” I said stubbornly. I was made of stern stuff, surely, but perhaps a test was in order. The Lady Knights could volunteer to help at the orphanage. That should even out our moral ledger a bit. Then again, it might take more than a few freshly washed chamber pots to even out the handful of robberies we were pulling off to keep the school open.

Suddenly, I spotted Keston returning—thank heavens—with an enormous pitcher of water. Relief sluiced through me, but then I noticed the gentleman walking behind him and groaned. My irritation doubled. Rafi appeared much too debonair for words in raven-black attire. He might have been an arrogant cad, but he wore a suit of formal togs like he was born for them. Tall, athletic, and lean, he commanded attention. My brother drew stares, too, but Keston was off the market. Rafi was not, and everyone with a working pulse knew it.

I could look. No one had to know.

His dark hair was swept back from his brow and fell in silky waves to his shoulders. It wasn’t de rigueur to have long hair, but Rafi did not care. His nose was long but that only complemented his high cheekbones and square jaw, along with his pair of full, perpetually quirked lips. My pulse sped up quite ridiculously.

Rafi greeted Ela, and his odd spell on me was broken. The heat must have been getting to my good sense because mooning after this particular gentleman was a recipe for the worst kind of heartbreak. Dragging my eyes away, I accepted the glass Keston gave me and gulped thirstily like a person left in the desert too long. When that was empty, he poured a second glass, which went the indecorous way of the first. I knew I mirrored a gluttonous boor, but the sweet, sweet coolness gave me relief.

“Slow down, Sister,” Keston warned. “You’ll have a coughing fit.” He turned to his fiancée. “Now that I’ve officially saved this damsel in self-imposed distress, would you reward me with a dance?”

Ela shot me a dubious look after a pointed stare to Rafi, but I shooed her away. She shouldn’t have to suffer for my choices, and I could survive a few minutes with London’s favorite rake. I fastidiously ignored him to pour myself a third glass while my body temperature desperately attempted to regulate. I forced myself to take small sips. He made a humming sound, and with an internal sigh, I glanced out of the corners of my eyes to find a much-too-delighted Rafi. I knew that whatever came out of his mouth was going to aggravate the spit out of me.

“Say your piece before you choke on your hubris,” I muttered.

That silver-gray gaze sparkled with unholy glee as he surveyed me from head to toe. Ela had once described his eyes as dark gray, but those mercurial irises could never be so prosaic. I braced myself when said eyes widened with false shock. “Dear God, Lady Zenobia, is that you ? I did not recognize you,” he said, slapping a palm to his chest. I scowled at the Thespian performance. He bloody well knew it was me. “Did you tumble into a vat of egg-white icing, perhaps?”

“Mr. Nasser,” I replied, and inclined my head as politely as I could, though my fingers itched to toss the rest of my drink into his face. But that would be a fruitless waste of perfectly refreshing water. “Clever as always. However do you keep that wit of yours so impressively sharp?”

His eyes danced with mischief at my reply. I wanted to kick myself. A reaction was always what he strove for, especially if it led to trouble. The man thrived on drama. “I am committed to perfection. I would ask you to dance, but I’d be too afraid of being smothered to death.”

“What a pity,” I murmured. “You could use a good smothering.”

“Why, Zia,” he said in a low voice that scraped over my senses and stepped alarmingly close even with my many layers. “I’m wounded. One would think you didn’t hold me in any esteem at all.” That voice deepened to a rasp. “Unless, of course, smothering by skirt is what you intend.”

I flushed and put a few inches’ distance between us until I was jammed up against a wall. “You are a cad. Go torment some other girl. You’ve already made your opinions of me clear. Keston’s silly little sister, was it?”

“I don’t remember calling you silly , but be that as it may, I like tormenting you,” he said. “You’re astonishingly delightful to bait.”

I bristled and clamped my lips together, knowing he was goading me yet again. God, how I longed to laud our latest heist over his arrogant head! Instead, I chose silence as a deterrent. It worked for a minute or two, and then, because this was Rafi, he leaned in much too close for comfort. So close that I could smell sandalwood and fresh rain. It was a unique combination, but one I’d always associated with him, and one that never failed to make my heart trip over itself like a buffoon.

“What on earth are you doing?” I demanded, unable to move, trapped as I was by the alcove wall and arguably the most infuriating male on the planet.

“You smell like orange blossoms.”

I froze. Every single thought fled my brain as my eyes flicked down to the left hand that would be missing its signet ring beneath its glove. The ring, currently burning a hole in my skin at the end of the chain around my neck, felt heavy. I’d kept the dratted thing out of some perverse sense of triumph at besting the oh-so-cocky Rafi Nasser, who had callously rejected me, like a secret victory token. In truth, I had no idea why I’d worn the ring tonight. Maybe it served as a reminder that I was more than Zia the diamond. I was Zia the rebel.

Or perhaps you simply wanted to wear his ring like a calf-eyed fool.

I ignored that voice. Not that he would guess what lay under my bodice, but just as I’d associated a fragrance with him, perhaps he was doing the same. “It’s a common scent,” I said in a neutral tone. “Like rose water.”

“Is it? You’re the only female of my acquaintance who favors it, so not as common as you think.”

I racked my brain and pointed to our gorgeous hostess, who was dancing past. “I believe Lady Rosalin wears it, as does my acquaintance Miss Lalita Varma. So perhaps you’re not nearly as observant as you think.”

He didn’t even respond to the jibe, his piercing, stormy stare narrowed, likely trying to determine if I could be the bandit he’d encountered in Hounslow Heath. For once, I was thankful for the layers shrouding me, making it difficult to associate this girl with the one on horseback. But it would take more than that to head him off. I had to play the part of the insipid, spoiled heiress—one he could never associate with a fearless robber.

“Heavens, have you ever seen a crush like this? Finding a husband amongst this crowd will be as simple as falling off a log.” I simpered and peered up at him through my lashes. “Or a wife, in your case,” I added, and smiled when I saw the slightest flinch of his shoulders. “In fact, a little bird told me that you are intending to court someone this season.”

His cockiness disappeared as dark eyebrows crashed together, a muscle leaping in his cheek. For a moment, I missed seeing the ever-present smirk. “I am not.”

“Oh? So, Miss Sarah Peabody is mistaken?” I couldn’t help my frown. Was he lying? Or had Sarah fibbed to get under my skin? It was likely the latter. “She said you were.”

“I have no idea who that is,” he growled, then shook his head. “Unless it is yet another scheme of my uncle’s. But I do not intend to court anyone, least of all anyone handpicked by him. Please excuse me, Lady Zenobia.”

Satisfied, I watched as he strode across the ballroom to where his uncle stood in conversation near the refreshments room. A swift exchange of words followed before Rafi stormed off to the foyer. A part of me—a foolish besotted part that needed to be quashed—instantly mourned his absence, and I fought the senseless urge to run after him, huge dress be damned. But I knew he would not welcome it.

And I had enough sense to not go where I wasn’t wanted.

I shivered. Rafi Nasser was like lightning…a burst of elemental energy sizzling through the air, signaling the arrival of a devastating storm. One that had the power to raze everything in its way, leaving nothing but ruin.

So why on earth did I feel the urge to throw myself directly into his path?