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Prologue

Amelia Jones, Viscountess Covington, had rejected two invitations, one marriage proposal, and a gown with an offensively modest neckline before Charlotte arrived to improve her afternoon. The invitations lay unanswered upon her writing desk, their cream edges curling slightly in the sunlight from the window. She had returned the proposal with rather more courtesy than it deserved, and had pressed the wax seal of her reply down firmly.

The gown remained draped over a chair, where Amelia hoped her maid would take pity on it and find someone who would like it. Every time her gaze strayed toward it, a small, hot flare of irritation tightened her jaw. She hated everything about that blasted gown. What had the seamstress been thinking? It did not suit her at all.

Charlotte paused in the drawing-room doorway, looked at the abandoned silk, and smiled. “Has someone died?”

“Only my seamstress’s good judgment.” Amelia set down her pen and flexed her fingers, which had begun to ache from gripping it too hard. “If you have come to persuade me to marry Lord Belden, you may leave.”

“I would sooner persuade you to take up embroidery with your toes.” Charlotte crossed the room in a whisper of skirts and bent to kiss her cheek. She settled upon the sofa with the unhurried grace of a woman entirely at home. The scent of her lavender water drifted across the room, and some of the tension eased from Amelia’s shoulders. “Though I should like to know what he said. You know how curious I am. What was that man thinking?”

“He is an imbecile, and I do not believe he gives anything any thought.” Amelia leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “He explained to me that a woman in my position ought to consider the advantages of a settled household.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “How generous of him to offer you something you already possess.”

“He also mentioned companionship.” She snorted.

Charlotte removed her gloves one finger at a time, her expression lively with interest. “Surely he did not mean his own?”

“Unfortunately.” Amelia’s lips twitched. “I could have been persuaded had he offered me his spaniel.” The man was horrid on a good day. She could not imagine spending any length of time in his company, let alone her entire life.

Her friend laughed, bright and unrestrained. Amelia smiled despite the irritation that had followed her through the morning. Belden had proposed as though he were offering to repair a defect in her circumstances. He had leaned forward in his chair with an air of magnanimous patience that had made her want to throw her teacup at the wall. She had a comfortable house, sufficient income, and the freedom to decline his company. He failed to appreciate that she valued that last advantage most. She had won it hard, and she guarded it the way other women guarded jewels. She was a widow and preferred to keep her life as it was, without a man dictating anything.

Charlotte glanced toward the writing desk. “You refused him, I trust.”

“With admirable restraint. I did not mention the spaniel.” Though she had been tempted…

“Then your good temper deserves a reward.” Charlotte drew a folded invitation from her reticule and laid it upon the table with a small, deliberate tap. “Lady Haviland is holding a masquerade.”

Amelia looked at the paper but did not reach for it. Her pulse gave a curious little skip, which she ignored. “That depends upon what you consider a reward.”

Charlotte grinned. “An excellent supper, agreeable company, and gentlemen who have come prepared to be entertaining.”

“Belden considers himself entertaining.” She narrowed her gaze. “What makes you think any of the gentlemen at the masquerade are any better than him?”

“Belden explains the drainage of his estate while other people are eating.” Charlotte nudged the invitation closer with one fingertip, her green eyes dancing. “I promise you a better selection.”

Amelia picked it up. The paper was heavy and smooth beneath her thumb. Black and gold. Masks required. Eight days hence. She knew Lady Haviland’s entertainments well enough to understand what had been left unwritten. A woman might dance with a gentleman there without having three dowagers assess the likelihood of a wedding. She might do considerably more than dance, provided both parties wanted to, and neither became indiscreet afterward. A warmth crept up her throat at the thought, and she lowered her gaze to hide it. Daphne had met her duke at the last masquerade. Not that she wanted to find a husband, but a lover… She might be open to that. The prospect was appealing. Charlotte’s interest in her acceptance was less reassuring.

“You have just come from Daphne,” Amelia said, watching her friend’s face.

She nodded. “I have.”

“And found her disgustingly happy.” She sighed. She was happy for their friend. They were all widows, and none of them wanted to remarry. So it was a surprise when Daphne had gone and fallen in love with a duke, then remarried.

“Quite disgustingly. I was obliged to endure it over tea.” Charlotte pressed a hand to her chest in theatrical suffering, though her eyes softened.

Amelia ran her thumb along the invitation's folded edge. She had seen Daphne with Benedict often enough to recognize the change in her friend. Daphne laughed more readily now, her whole face opening with it. She often reached for her husband, and he looked at her as though he could scarcely believe she had chosen him. Amelia was glad for them. Truly, she was. But beneath the gladness lay a small, tender ache she had no wish to examine. She suspected their happiness had encouraged Charlotte to undertake further experiments.

“You need not find me a duke,” she said. Amelia had already married into the aristocracy. She was happy with her title of dowager viscountess. She had no children with her late husband, so the title had passed on to his nephew. She received her yearly allowance, and that was enough for her.

Charlotte’s brows rose. “How fortunate. I had not brought one.”

“Nor an earl, a marquess, or a gentleman with a conveniently empty nursery.” Not that she had not wanted children, but she hadn’t been blessed with any. She would not marry to fill her need to be a mother.

“I have brought an invitation, Amelia. You may inspect it for concealed husbands if you wish.” Charlotte let out a frustrated breath. “Though I shall be pleasantly surprised if any manage to appear.”

She laughed, surprised by its warmth, then looked down at the paper again. There had been a time when she accepted an evening’s amusement without examining every possible consequence. She missed that ease. More troublingly, she missed the anticipation of a man’s attention. She had enjoyed the thrill, the lingering glances that made her skin prickle, the lowered voice that settled low in her stomach, and the awareness that a touch might follow if she encouraged it. The memory stirred something restless beneath her ribs.