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The cup slid from Mrs. Turner’s hand, shattering on the floor. Tea spilled everywhere, and her face paled.

Michael grabbed a rag and soaked up the spill, cleaning up the broken pieces. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.”

But when he looked into Mrs. Turner’s gray eyes, he saw consummate fear. “Who—who was he?”

“Graf von Reischor,” he said. “The ambassador, I believe. It was nothing.”

He said not a word about the man’s impossible claim, that he looked like their king. But Mrs. Turner gripped his hand, her face bone white. “No. Oh, no.”

“What is the matter?” He stared into her silver eyes, wondering why the mention of Lohenberg would frighten her so. Neither of them had ever left England before.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Turner’s face turned distant. She whispered to herself about her son Henry, as though he were a young child toddling toward her.

It was useless to ask her anything now. The madness had descended once more.

Hannah wasn’t entirely certain what a ruined woman should wear, but she felt confident that it wouldn’t be a gown the color of cream. This morning, Christine Chesterfield had inspected every inch of her attire, fussing over her as if she were about to meet the Queen.

“Now remember,” her mother warned, “be on your very best behavior. Pretend that nothing happened the other night.”

Nothing did happen , she wanted to retort, but she feigned subservience. “Yes, Mother.”

Christine reached out and adjusted a hairpin, ensuring that not a single strand was out of place. “Did you read my list?”

“Of course.” Hannah offered the slip of paper, and her mother found a pen, hastily scratching notes.

“I’ve made changes for tonight. At dinner, you are to wear the white silk gown with the rose embroidery and your pearls. Estelle will fix your hair, and you should be there by eight o’clock.”

Her mother handed her the new list. “I have advised Manning not to serve you any blanc mange or pudding. And no wine. You have been indulging far more than you should, my dear. Estelle tells me that your figure is a half-inch larger than it should be.”

Her throat clenched, but Hannah said nothing. She stared down at the list, the words blurring upon the page. Never before had she questioned her mother’s orders. If she couldn’t have sweets, then that was because Christine wanted her to have an excellent figure. It was love, not control. Wasn’t it?

But she felt herself straining against the rules, wanting to escape. Her mother was worried about the size of her waistline, when her entire future had been turned upside down? It seemed ridiculous, in light of the scandal.

With each passing moment, Hannah’s discomfort worsened. “Mother, honestly, I don’t feel up to receiving visitors. I’d rather wait a few days.” She hadn’t slept well last night, and her mind was preoccupied with the uncertain future.

“You will do as you’re told, Hannah. The sooner you are married, the sooner you can put this nightmare behind you.” Her mother stood and guided her to the parlor. “Now wait here until Lord Belgrave arrives. He told your father he would come to call at two o’clock.”

Hannah realized she might as well have been speaking to a stone wall. In her mind, she envisioned her parents chaining her ankle to the church pew, her mouth stuffed with a handkerchief while they wedded her off to Belgrave.

At least she had an hour left, before the true torment began. She contemplated escaping the house, but what good would it do to run away? Nothing, except make her parents angrier than they already were.

No, if she had to face Lord Belgrave again, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. Perhaps he would call off his plans.

Her father, the marquess, stood beside the fireplace, his pocket watch in his hands. Disappointment and sadness cloaked his features as he put the watch in his waistcoat. He paced toward the sofa and sat down, his wrists resting upon his knees.

Hannah went and sat down beside her father. She reached out and took his hand. Anger would never win a battle against her father. But he had a soft spot for obedience.

“I know that you are trying to protect me,” she said gently. “And as your only daughter, I know that you want someone to take care of me.”

His eyes were stormy with unspoken fury, but he was listening.

“I beg of you, Papa, don’t ask me to marry Lord Belgrave,” she pleaded. “I don’t care if he reveals the scandal to everyone.”

“I do.” Her father’s grip tightened around her knuckles. “I won’t allow our family name to be degraded, simply because you lost your judgment one night.”

Hannah pulled her hand away. “I will marry no one.” Rising to her feet, she added, “Especially not Baron Belgrave.”

“It won’t be Michael Thorpe. God help me, you will not wed a soldier.”

The thought had never entered her mind, but at the reminder of the lieutenant, a caress of heat erupted over her body.

Sensual and rebellious, a man like Michael Thorpe would never treat her with the polite distance so typical of marriage.

No, she suspected he was the sort of man who would possess her, stealing her breath away in forbidden pleasure. Like he had when he’d kissed her.

Hannah shook her head, hiding her blush. “Of course not.”

Plunging forward, she revealed an alternate plan. “Send me somewhere far away from London until the talk dies down. We have cousins elsewhere in Europe, don’t we?”

“Germany,” he admitted. His countenance turned grim, but she thought she detected a softening in his demeanor. Please, God, let him listen to me , she prayed.

At that moment, the footman Phillips gave a quiet knock. “Forgive me, my lord, but Baron Belgrave is here to call upon Lady Hannah.”

The marquess hesitated a moment before speaking. Hannah gripped her fingers together so hard, her knuckles turned white. She shook her head, pleading with her father.

“Give him another chance, Hannah,” the marquess said quietly. “Despite his reproachable actions, the man does come from an excellent family. He can provide you with anything you’d ever need.”

She couldn’t believe the words had come from her father’s mouth. She’d known that he cared about appearances, that upholding model behavior was important to him. But she’d never thought wealth was more important than her own well-being.

“Papa, please,” she whispered again. “Don’t ask this of me.”

Her father’s face tensed, but his tone was unyielding when he spoke. “Tell the baron my daughter will await him in the drawing room.”