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T he day of Winterbourne’s ball, a steady sea of fashionable city and country folk arrived to test propriety and passion, and forge bonds in a landscape of embellishments; wax candles in cut-glass chandeliers, lusters, and lamps illuminated rooms thrown open for the occasion.

Plants from the conservatory and hot-house flowers transformed the interior of the house, teasing the senses, while politicians hobnobbed with their betters.

Gossips remarked on the number of couples, the make of gowns, manners and good looks.

All while music and dancing heightened expectations that the next three weeks would be a memorable experience leading into autumn.

A welcome breeze wafted from the open veranda doors, providing Lora relief from the overcrowded space.

The refinement and refreshments, mockery, and merriment created a magical realm that contrasted reality, a fact she found frustrating.

People brought chaos and demands. They required attention, preventing her from acting on impulse.

Pretending to be a wallflower—a pair of spectacles and a mousy demeanor her only armor—she played her part lest she disappoint Aunt Meg.

Balls were feasts of artifice and flirtation, tombs of intrigue and interrogation that led women to ruin.

She abhorred frippery, folly, and the foppish behavior allowed in ballrooms, preferring the splendor of nature, the outdoors, and the crisp country air to the rich and classical bouquet of beeswax and boredom.

In truth, Society did not recommend her, though that had not always been the case.

Nicholas’s horrific death had changed everything. Nothing would ever be the same.

Aunt Meg and Uncle Thomas led off the first set, Lady Montgomery , while everyone danced simultaneously in one singular line over the tastefully chalked floor, decorated with symbolic scenes of victory.

It had been Meg’s idea to honor Kingston’s veterans of militia regiments and volunteers, who were flocking home in droves.

Other dances followed with Juliana , a Viennese waltz, enlivening the room, providing a rare chance for the unwed to exude power and persuasion over the opposite sex.

Now people who’d scarcely shaken hands had permission to affect a tender touch like an affianced lover under the watchful eyes of doting mamas.

“Isn’t the waltz thrilling?” her friend Lady Elizabeth Seymore asked with a flood of enthusiasm meant to inspire Lora into a sigh.

“Oh, look, there’s Lady Anne. Take note of her hem as she spins.

The drape and swirl of her gown adds an ethereal beauty to the dance, does it not?

” Indeed, Lady Anne and those around her came to life, twirling, swaying, and gliding as gracefully as swans on a lake.

“Oh, to be swept about in such a manner, dizzy with delight and dreaming about a lover’s touch throughout the night. ”

“Eliza,” Lora whispered, noticing the matrons around them blushing as their younger daughters traversed the floor in the arms of strangers, “someone will overhear.”

“Let them hear. It is not as if anyone pays attention to me anyway.”

“They should. You deserve better.” A violent seizure of Lora’s affections took hold.

Although she and Eliza were childhood friends, women like them—wallflowers—sat and waited, left to rot between potted palms and partitions, their hopes of dancing face-to-face with a heroic gentleman dashed to smithereens.

Reserve was not at fault for the ratio of male to female guests.

Dowries and a lack of flirtation cursed those without.

“I suppose dancing with an amiable partner poses an entertaining diversion, but dreaming about such a one depends on the man, his constitution, his morals, his?—”

“Any man will do.”

“Eliza, you shouldn’t say such things.” Her scandalous remark filled Lora with dread. Desperation had ruined innocents, and that was not a fate she desired Eliza to endure. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“Don’t be such a bird-wit. I am not wicked.

You know what I mean.” Eliza covered her mouth, stifling a giggle.

“Oh, but I fly ahead of myself again. Of course, I would have to be asked to dance. Instead, I wait to be claimed by a worthy gentleman, which would be a Herculean feat, providing I was not?—”

“A wallflower?” Pesky mark, that. “You are not. In any sense of the word. I beg, do not contemplate the idea. Why, you just danced with Mr. Grimes.” She pressed her lips together to keep from grinning as the solicitor’s subtle limp guaranteed he’d gotten the point.

When she’d blocked Mr. Grimes’s access to her uncle’s property, she’d had no intention of permanently harming the man.

Far from it. His blatant refusal to allow her access to his dispatches, however, followed by his cowardly actions, had got him into trouble.

Visits to her uncle had become more frequent, and with news that Samuel would return, curiosity made her wonder if the increased activity had anything to do with her cousin selling his commission.

The time for glossing over Samuel’s gambling habits was at an end.

And based on what she’d learned, should Samuel inherit Winterbourne, he would drive the whole of it to destitution in a matter of weeks, using the estate as collateral.

“Poor old man,” Eliza went on, though forty could hardly be called old. Meg was forty-two. “The effort caused him immeasurable pain.”

What had the solicitor told her? She suddenly grew uncomfortable. “How so?”

“Did you not hear? He was attacked by highwaymen a fortnight ago.”

“Highwaymen?” The man’s ridiculous admission was not shocking. What was surprising was a sudden desire to tell Eliza the truth. If she knew the lengths to which Lora had gone to avenge Nicholas, what would her friend think of her? “The tolls have?—”

“Yes. Yes, I know. It is typically safer to travel along that route now.” Eliza shot her a look, her green eyes gleaming like porcelain as they locked onto Lora’s. “I believe him. While valiantly protecting a woman in his care, he stated he was outflanked and shot.”

Lora gasped. Not because the wound intensified her guilt, but for the inflated lies which would now become legend.

“Oh, it is a gut-wrenching tale, I assure you. The poor lady in his care swooned.”

What a barrow of bollocks! Grimes’s drivers had abandoned him and he had no spine.

“Mr. Grimes confronted the highwaymen, using his sword to repel them, but he was struck down from behind. Thankfully, due to his heroic actions, the damsel he rescued was there to provide him with sufficient care. And lo, he is here to tell the tale.”

A warning voice whispered not to engage.

Mr. Grimes’s cowardice and bloated fable revealed him to be a warty frog.

“Your beauty is mesmerizing, and dancing with Mr. Grimes allowed him to overcome his affliction. Take heart.” Other gentlemen surely noticed her beauty and poise as she danced with a disagreeable partner.

“Others will flock to your side. Wait and see.”

Gathering her dearest friend close, quashing fears that Eliza may go home disappointed—yet again—she could not hold back the rush of reassurances that spilled from her mouth.

They provided no solace when she was in a similar situation—a product of her own making, no less.

She had no plans to show the strength of her power.

She was a secondary object, the daughter of the host, nothing more.

She intended to fade into the woodwork. For it was there she could plot and plan, determining the muster of men, condemning or exonerating them at her leisure.

“You are the prettiest creature present, Eliza.” Which wasn’t a lie.

Eliza’s dowry, however, limited temptation.

“One of these fine gentlemen will come to his senses and fall prostrate at your feet, blathering on about the color of your hair or your winsome, tempting eyes. Perhaps I should retrieve the smelling salts.”

That bit of wit produced a chuckle.

“Seriously, believe me when I say it is only a matter of time before someone sweeps you off your feet.”

“The Duke of Beresford.”

At that announcement, Eliza grabbed her arm abruptly. “He has come. I thought the rumors must be false. Oh, my heart is aflutter. Do you think it possible he might ask us to dance?”

“I can hardly say,” Lora said unable to pull her gaze away from the handsome figure the duke posed standing there, dressed in black from head to foot, a white stock hugging his rugged jaw and a perfectly tied cravat the only adornment.

“It would be the height of rudeness to refuse him.”

Yes. It was universally acknowledged that if a woman turned down a man, she must turn down all the others.

A challenge Lora did not welcome, especially when Papa and Meg had such high hopes of her marrying by Season’s end.

No one would do for her except the duke.

His handsome face frequented her dreams, and the memory of the look in his soul-stirring eyes as he’d chased her in the woods made her fear that he blamed her for his butler’s death.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

She’d had no part in the poor man’s demise and could also not afford the distraction the duke posed for her.

She was determined to bring Nicholas’s killer to justice.

And if that meant sacrificing any future she might have had with the duke, so be it.

Eliza shook her out of her musings. “According to Wightman, we must ‘respect, cultivate, and exalt’ the strength of our power. It is said to link us to angels.”

Lora smiled, then looked away from the duke, fearful he’d catch her staring. “I am not an angel.”

“Whatever do you mean, Lora? You are the most angelic person I know.”