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O f course, Joy would be forced to suffer tea at Lady Abernathy’s house the day after her humiliation with Lord Abernathy.

She closed her eyes and drew in a long, steadying breath.

Of all the trials London could inflict upon a reluctant débutante, being obliged to go there might well rank among the most dreaded.

That woman had the memory of an elephant and the social tact of a goose.

The very thought of stepping over Lady Abernathy’s threshold caused Joy’s stomach to twist in anxious protest.

Alas, there was no escape. Lady Maeve had seized upon the invitation and insisted that Joy accompany her and would brook no excuses to cry off.

The Dowager—whom would chaperone Joy and Maeve—had further decreed that the call must be made, for Lady Abernathy was ‘a woman of significant standing in Society, and it would be a monstrous breach of decorum to snub her.’ Such were the Dowager’s exact words, in addition to, ‘You must face this with your chin up, or ’twill only feed more gossip. ’

Thus, Joy found herself in the plush carriage rattling its way towards Charles Street.

She fiddled with a ruffle on her jonquil sprigged muslin gown, which was rather more decorative than she preferred.

Lady Maeve sat beside her, wearing a striped lawn dress of pale green and pink. The Dowager and Faith sat opposite.

“Lady Abernathy will doubtless give me a wide berth,” Joy quipped, though her pulse fluttered in anticipation of the dreaded meeting.

Faith replied, “I am certain she hardly recalls that silly mishap from last year.”

The Dowager waved a hand. “Of course she does not remember it,” she declared, in the lofty tone that only a venerable matron of the ton could manage. “There is no point expecting the worst.”

Joy raised an eyebrow, wishing she shared the Dowager’s optimism.

Last year’s ‘little mishap’ involved Joy tripping over her own skirts during a country fête.

The older lady had not been shy in voicing her shock—and, if Joy recalled correctly, had cast many dramatic remarks on the impropriety of young ladies who galloped about as though they were stable boys.

Joy’s cheeks warmed at the memory, and she realized she was clutching the fabric at her knee a bit too tightly.

The carriage jolted to a stop, and the footman opened the door with a swift bow.

Charles Street was lined with elegant facades of town houses, each boasting prim windows and iron railings.

Joy stepped down, taking in the sight of Lady Abernathy’s imposing residence, with its marble steps and polished knocker shaped like a lion’s head.

If the outside was any indication, the inside would be a veritable hazard of stiff upholstery, fragile porcelain, and sharp-eyed matrons.

They were ushered inside by the butler, who led them to a large drawing room, all pastel wallpaper and gilt.

The group exchanged the usual pleasantries with Lady Abernathy, who sat in a high-backed chair near the hearth, wearing what looked to be enough lace to outfit an entire modiste’s shop.

Joy’s heart sank at the sight of her hostess’s triumphant smile.

They were seated amongst a few other ladies who had already arrived. Joy was hoping someone else would distract Lady Abernathy from noticing Joy again.

“Miss Whitford,” Lady Abernathy greeted her, voice echoing in the lofty space, “I am so delighted you could join us. I do hope you suffered no ill effects from your mishap last evening?”

Maeve sucked in a breath. Joy schooled her features into what she hoped was a polite expression, though she could feel her jaw tightening. The Dowager gave a slight shake of her head, as though pleading silently for Joy to keep her composure.

“Oh, no, my lady,” Joy managed, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow to her own ears. “I scarcely recall it.”

“Indeed?” Lady Abernathy’s eyes glimmered with mischief.

“Well, I recall it very well. Quite the tumble you took, my dear. It was all my poor Alistair could do to rush forward and catch you.” She paused, then let out a syrupy laugh.

“Ah, how charming these young ladies are—so prone to little swoons. I do not blame you at all, Miss Whitford. Seeing my dear son can have that effect on young maidens.”

Joy nearly choked on air. The mortification of that moment threatened to spill out as a burst of wild laughter, for the notion that she had tumbled due to some tendre for Alistair Abernathy was absurd.

She could not imagine a man she’d less like to be ‘shackled to for life,’ as she privately termed it.

The alliteration of ‘Alistair Abernathy’ alone set her teeth on edge; the memory of his tittering laugh did not help matters.

She darted a look at Maeve, who was staring down into her tea cup, lips twitching in silent mirth.

That only made Joy’s struggle for composure more difficult.

She had to clamp her lips tightly to prevent a gale of laughter from escaping.

Faith’s elbow discreetly nudged Joy’s side—clearly urging restraint.

“That must have been it, my lady,” Joy managed at last.

Lady Abernathy, pleased with the attention, lifted her own cup in a regal gesture. “And you blush so prettily!” she cried, glancing around the circle as though inviting all present to admire the shade of Joy’s cheeks. “Is it not charming, how overcome she is?”

Overcome, indeed. Joy felt a keen urge to bolt.

In her mind’s eye, she pictured herself vaulting over the settee and sprinting out of the door, shocking every last guest. Of course, that would only confirm Lady Abernathy’s claims of Joy’s unsuitably rash behaviour, so Joy forced herself to remain rooted in her chair.

The Dowager, sensing Joy’s agitation, cleared her throat loudly. “I have heard that your garden is particularly fine this year, Judith. Perhaps you might share with us how you have managed to coax such blooms in our unpredictable spring?”

The hostess blinked, momentarily diverted by her own horticultural accomplishments.

“Ah, yes, the garden. My head gardener is quite skilled, you see, and we have put in new rose varieties.” She launched into a detailed explanation of fertilizers and pruning strategies, during which Joy managed to inch her chair back from the centre of attention.

Faith, who sat beside Joy, shot her an apologetic glance. Faith was well aware of Joy’s dislike for these sorts of gatherings. But Faith was also pinned by conversation with Mrs. Huntington, who was expounding upon the benefits of a sugared ginger drink for digestion.

Meanwhile, Lady Maeve had turned her attentions to another corner of the room, where the Duchess of Thornhill was holding court.

Joy could see Maeve’s eyes alight with interest. She was as clever as she was charming, and the challenge of enticing the young, handsome Duke was her particular goal for the Season.

Unfortunately, the Duchess was rumoured to have a low opinion of Irish titles, and Lady Maeve happened to be the daughter of an Irish lord.

Joy glanced at the scene with mild sympathy.

Poor Maeve. The Duchess looked as though she’d swallowed a lemon whole.

Joy sipped her tea, grateful that the inquisition into her clumsiness had passed.

One could only manage so many mortifications in an afternoon.

If only she could slip away for a nice, hard ride.

In fact, the more she considered it, the more attractive the notion became.

She could practically taste the country air, hear the rustle of leaves, and smell the comforting aroma of fresh grass and horse.

She nearly sighed aloud at the daydream but caught herself in time.

The last thing she wanted was to invite more remarks from Lady Abernathy about her apparently romantic daydreams of Alistair.

Heaven forbid. No, the only gentleman whose company she truly missed was Freddy Cunningham, who had been her closest friend for as long as she could remember.

He would understand her longing for open fields and dusty roads.

If they could slip away for a gallop, she might regain her sense of balance and clarity.

Her reverie was shattered when Lady Abernathy’s voice rose again. “Would you care for another pastry, Miss Whitford?” She held out a plate stacked high with confections. “I recommend the cream puffs. My dear Alistair finds them quite delightful.”

No doubt they are as puffed up as he , Joy reflected grimly. She pinned a polite smile to her lips. “Who could refuse a cream puff?”

Joy carefully selected the smallest puff available, solely to avoid giving offence.

She could sense Maeve watching her from across the room, lips twitching in suppressed laughter.

It was all Joy could do not to mirror her amusement.

She was certain Alistair would much rather engage in a debate on the best arrangement of a neckcloth or brag about his riding boots than dance attendance on any lady.

That was the impression he had given her last Season, at least—endlessly preening and turning this way and that to show off some new ensemble or fob.

Meanwhile, Maeve continued her foray into the territory of the Duchess, ploughing on with fearless charm. Joy caught scraps of conversation drifting across the room.

“…my father is Lord Donnellan,” Maeve answered the Duchess’s query.

“Is that not an Irish title?” came the Duchess’s rather cold reply.

“Indeed. The estate is the most beautiful land and castle overlooking the sea. You should visit one day, your Grace,” Maeve chirped, undeterred.