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C lara clung to her mother as they entered the dining room.

Sweet heaven—who was that man? He seemed as out of place here as Clara herself.

Not conforming to Society etiquette, he’d approached her, his body filling her field of vision, like a huge beast emerging from his lair.

But, unlike the lords and ladies who used polite niceties to disguise their contempt, this huge Scot had spoken with a brutal frankness that resonated with her at a primal level.

She could never have believed such men existed in the circle of Society in which she now resided. Every creature she’d encountered since her stepfather brought her here stared at her as if she didn’t belong—as if she were wrong .

And she was wrong—a feral creature from the slums of London, with coarse manners and unsavory ideas.

She would never be one of them. For if the ladies and gentlemen who resided in this little corner of Northumberland could spot that she was a misfit at a single glance, what hope did she have of convincing the men and women of the—what did Mama call it?

Oh yes—the ton .

Why could she never remember the names for everything? Ton, cotillion, quadrille, modiste …

These people with whom she was now required to socialize were like foreigners—they spoke a different language. They were a different species altogether.

None of them were like Papa Harcourt, who, though strict to the point where Clara was a little afraid of him, was always fair—generous in his praise, and patient in his censure.

Not once had he raised his voice to her in anger, let alone his hand.

Instead, he left her to her harshest critic—her own conscience.

But the other inhabitants of this strange world treated her with loathing, as if they knew the blackness that resided in her soul—that piece of her that was spawned from evil.

And yet, among the swarm of enemies here tonight, she had sensed an ally—a lone man who stared at her from across the dance floor, his penetrating gaze breaking through her armor until he saw her and recognized her.

But, instead of looking away in disgust, he regarded her with understanding and desire.

And that desire was more unsettling than the contempt or ridicule she’d weathered since entering Society—more terrifying than the beatings she’d endured as a child.

Her fear was not of what he might do—but of how he made her feel .

When he’d approached her, a delicious heat bloomed in her belly, and a deep, wicked ache pulsed between her legs, in that secret place where she touched herself at night, closing her eyes to relive the memory of the wicked sights she’d glimpsed in her former life—drunken men taking their pleasures in the dark streets by London’s docks; sailors who tossed coins at painted women before lifting their skirts…

And Clara, in her wickedness, had felt her body turn to liquid at the sight as she imagined what it might be like to have a man between her thighs.

Such as Murdo Alastair James McTavish.

What might it feel like to have him touch her…there?

Her foot caught in the hem of her gown, and she tripped.

“Careful, Clara, dear,” Mama said, steadying her, and Clara’s heart jolted as she looked up to see the object of her fascination staring at her.

Did he know his own potency—that he could have her bend to his will and yield to his touch?

Yes, he did. With one glance of those deep emerald eyes, he could read her soul—her innermost, wickedest desires.

It was not to be borne. Not even Mama Betty knew of her wickedness. And doubtless if he learned of her desire, he’d laugh at her like the others—call her guttersnipe, as Miss Peacock did.

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Mama said. “Lady Cholmondeley told me she’s set a place for you with the other young people.”

“Can’t I sit with you and Papa Harcourt?”

“My dear, you need to learn—as others do—that you’re as good as the rest of them.

” Mama lowered her voice. “We wouldn’t want to give the other girls here the satisfaction of believing you fear them, would we?

Once you’ve weathered this party, you’ll be able to weather anything in London Society.

And your brothers won’t be sitting too far away. ”

Clara hesitated, then Lady Cholmondeley appeared. “Miss Martingale, let me show you to your seat,” she said. “You can be assured, Duchess, that your daughter’s in safe hands with me.”

Mama nodded, and Clara let their hostess lead her toward the dining table where the unattached young people sat. Her gut churned with apprehension as she spotted Miss Peacock’s venomous gaze, and her heart sank as her hostess steered her toward a seat opposite her nemesis.

She’d endured worse in the slums of London—how bad could one meal sitting opposite a spiteful young woman be?

Could the evening get any worse?

Far from being able to demonstrate the table manners she’d learned in the weeks since her stepfather had plucked her from London’s slums, Clara had, so far, managed to exhibit the behavior that justified all the witticisms aimed in her direction about guttersnipes and urchins .

Her dinner companions had managed to maneuver themselves such that there was an empty space either side of her, then engaged in a whispered conversation which she was only partially able to hear, sharing the confidences of best friends.

And, given that she hadn’t a single friend here tonight, Clara couldn’t expect to be privy to their conversation.

Not that she wanted to—most likely the topic of their discussion was limited to ribbons, lace, and other fripperies.

Her only allies, her stepbrothers, were at a separate table for the young men.

Clearly Lady Cholmondeley didn’t trust the sexes to behave appropriately together.

She had a point, if what Nate had said about Mr. Barrington-Smythe and his wife were true—they’d been caught in flagrante delicto in Lady Cholmondeley’s library during a Christmas house party, after which they were married somewhat hastily.

Clara glanced across the room, where Corn and Nate were engaged in laughter, as if they actually enjoyed this hideous party. But they’d been born into privilege and knew by instinct which fork to use, how to address a countess, and how to make socially acceptable conversation.

Her stomach had growled with hunger, much to the amusement of Miss Peacock, who seemed to be watching her every move, waiting to point out each faux pas.

When Clara had audibly scraped her spoon against the bowl during the soup course, Miss Peacock had issued a gasp of horror and shared a pained expression with her neighbor.

A footman placed a plate of chicken in the center of the table, complete with serving spoons.

Heavens —was she expected to serve herself? Surely she’d drop the chicken, making herself a laughingstock.

“Do try the chicken, Miss Martingale,” Miss Peacock said, fixing her cold gaze on Clara.

“I-I think I’ll try the bread first,” Clara said, reaching for a knife.

“Oh no !” Miss Peacock exclaimed, shaking her head in mock sympathy. “My dear Miss Martingale, while I applaud your efforts at the dinner table, I feel it necessary to inform you that the knife you’re holding is not a butter knife. It’s for the main course.”

Clara’s cheeks warmed as several pairs of eyes focused on her. Only Miss Goodchild’s expression lacked the malignance of the others, doubtless due to her state of inebriation—she was on her fourth glass of wine.

“I trust you understand the kindness meant in my giving you a little advice, Clara,” Miss Peacock continued. “I can call you Clara, can’t I? While a certain degree of gaucheness is permitted in a country setting, I fear London Society will be considerably less forgiving. Is that not right, ladies?”

Her companions nodded.

“Are you to be presented at court next year?” Miss Peacock continued.

Clara nodded, and Miss Peacock raised her eyebrows.

“Well! I wish you luck in your endeavors to act with decorum before the queen. We all wish you luck, don’t we, ladies?”

The other girls nodded, their feathered headdresses dancing in unison.

“I’m sure if you put in sufficient effort, you’ll give the appearance of gentility, at least,” Miss Peacock said. “Effort should always be applauded, even if it cannot go hand in hand with an equal degree of achievement.”

What was it about women of Miss Peacock’s class that compelled them to use as many words as possible when issuing insults?

“I’d be willing to give you a few pointers,” she continued, twisting her pretty mouth into a smile of superiority. She gestured toward Clara’s place setting. “The butter knife is the small one with the blade that’s rounded at the tip. On the side plate, there.”

Clara stared at the knife, cursing herself. Of course! Mama had told her that countless times.

“You use the plate to your left, not your right, for the bread,” Miss Peacock said. “But your wineglass is on the right.”

“I know that ,” Clara retorted.

“Then there’s hope for you after all.” Miss Peacock gestured to the knife. “Pick it up, then!”

Clara reached for the knife. Her hand shook, and it slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Female laughter rippled through the company, which increased as she leaned over to pick it up and collided with a footman.

“Let me, miss,” he said, as the laughter increased, and Clara righted herself, her cheeks flaming.

“My dear Miss Martingale, how you amuse!” Miss Peacock said.

“It’s not done for ladies to retrieve fallen objects—that’s for servants and the lower classes.

But we should make allowances with your being new to Society.

Now, perhaps you might show us what to do next.

Ought you use the main-course knife for your bread? ”

Why did Miss Peacock continue to torment her? She was like the cat in the kitchens at Pittchester Castle when it had caught a mouse, toying with its prey as if it relished the creature’s suffering—at least until the cook shooed it away with a broom.