Charlotte and Louisa brightened. Amelia, standing in what had become her customary position just behind the dowager, smiled broadly. “You look wonderful, Faith.” Although the dowager disapproved, Faith had insisted that Amelia continue to use her given name.

“Thank you.”

John took her outside and handed her into the carriage with a flourish. Turvey already waited outside, and she arranged the folds of Faith’s gown for the least amount of creases. Faith felt like a fashion doll, arranged and primped for the satisfaction of someone else, the outside world. She said as much to John when the carriage had begun to move.

He took her hand and tugged it, so she had to lean closer to him, then he leaned in and delivered a long, luscious kiss. She’d become addicted to his kisses, but she tried to pull away this time. He only held her firmer until she gave in and let him have his way. When he finally released her they were both breathing a little heavier. “You are beautiful,” he said. “Remember that. Tonight I’ll show you some society beauties. They are no better than you are, you’ll see.”

Her smile felt natural for the first time today. That he thought her beautiful was enough.

Entering the huge house in St. James’ Square proved enough to tax Faith’s nerves. Flambeaux flamed outside in their holders either side of the imposing front door, thrown wide to reveal the glow of candles within. Liveried flunkies waited to spirit away their outer clothing, and maids stood by, ready to attend to the needs of the guests.

She’d known she would feel nervous, expected it, but she had never let anyone affect the way she felt about herself before and she didn’t like it. Deep down she still felt like the child in the vicarage, the one in the middle who nobody had much time for and had become adept at melting from view. No hope of that tonight.

She sniffed the air. The house smelled different, not of the rose-leaf pot-pourri the dowager favoured, but more like spiced oranges. The aroma plunged Faith back to her own home in Red Lion Square. Every winter she’d pushed cloves into oranges and put them on stands to permeate her rooms with the scent of the season.

This house smelled the same, providing the link she needed, the reminder that everyone at heart, under the fine clothes, shared a commonality.

A few heads turned as she entered the large salon on the first floor that had been turned into a ballroom for the evening. She had wondered at the duchess using a private residence to entertain two hundred guests. But with the complete range of state rooms thrown open to visitors, they had plenty of room. At least they did at the moment. This ball would turn into a squeeze, as society would have it, not successful unless the place was overflowing. The hundreds of candles and the press of guests would transform the place into a hothouse.

Even this early, at nine o’clock, the guests had arrived in good numbers. Enough space to move about. The duchess came forward to greet them, an affable smile firmly fixed to her face. “So pleasant to see you. Such a tragedy to hear your news!”

Faith correctly assumed she meant the death of the brothers, and put her features into the gravity such a discussion deserved.

“Indeed. We never expected this honour, much less to achieve it in an unhappy way.”

The duchess bestowed a nod on her. No snub, then, despite her tactless greeting. Faith had been half afraid everyone would turn their backs, a recurring nightmare over the last few days and one that had disturbed her dreams. Nobody did. As John took her around the gracious room and introduced her to various people, she noticed some drifting away. They didn’t give her the cut direct, the hurtful back-turning that would have equalled social death. No, it was far more subtle.

Enough guests agreed to meet them, and discussed the death of the brothers, which she supposed was natural, but she tired of it, then felt guilty. She should mourn them for longer than two weeks.

She’d known Stephen slightly, Vivien hardly at all, but she felt only mildly sad at their passing, and sorry for the loss of two upstanding young men.

She’d seen too much death, had the emotion leached out of her by years of watching men go off to die. Eventually welcomed the numb feeling that came with bad news, better than the sick dread and days of depression. Sometimes guilt made her try to care, but it never worked. Even when John had died she hadn’t felt any grief for a full month, but she put that down to delayed shock. Even then, she’d cried for John Dalkington-Smythe as much as for her husband.

Maybe her anxiety made her edgy, but she hadn’t relaxed into this ball, not at all, despite John’s assurances.

These people made her feel the same way she always had in their presence—apart, not a member of their exclusive club. She didn’t belong here and everyone knew it, including her. Her tension threatened to make her nervousness increase, then they would gossip about her and say how ill-bred she was. Determined to deny them that pleasure, Faith stuck her polite smile in place and continued to move and chat.

Once aware, she saw the glances cast their way, watched some guests move away from them. Subtle, but nobody would miss it.

Everyone there that night would know and would gossip. Some she knew by sight, and they seemed the most exalted guests and the highest sticklers. She danced once, with John, and then another time with another gentleman he knew well, a friend from the army.

By then she was fighting to hold back her tears. Rejection always hurt, however much she told herself it didn’t. Not that she’d allowed it to come between her and what she wanted. Until now.

At least no one was rude to her face. It was like trying to catch an eel—elusive. Just when she thought she had the answer, the reason for the not-quite rejection, it slid away from her. Everyone was too polite, and if she’d asked outright, they’d refuse to reply. Probably castigate her for an ignorant provincial, or boring, unforgiveable sins in the eyes of society.

“Such a tragedy about the earl.” If she heard that sentiment once more, she’d scream, but instead she nodded gravely and agreed.

Couldn’t think of an appropriate answer.

She longed to point out whatever part of society they belonged to, the constant harping seemed nothing short of rude. People should have consideration for John’s unfortunate position. Some glanced away when she looked in their direction. That told her they were having a fine old time gossiping about the new Earl and Countess of Graywood. Irresistible scandal about people they didn’t know, but people they considered below them.

She couldn’t wait for the evening to end. Her first social occasion as countess ended in depressing anti-climax as she collected her wrap and hat and waited at John’s side for the carriage.

They didn’t speak, but he reached for her hand and clasped it warmly.

At home, she allowed Turvey to disrobe her in silence. Even Robinson’s usual ebullience seemed lacking, but perhaps it was the, to her, late hour. Dressed in her nightclothes and wrapper she sat at the dressing table to allow Turvey to brush out her hair, and saw the connecting door move.

John was still fully clothed. “I have an errand.” He bent over her and kissed her cheek. “You must be tired. Go to bed without me.”

So she didn’t even have the comfort of his arms, although she settled in the bed in his room, as she’d become accustomed to doing. She didn’t cry herself to sleep, but her sense of failure rested on her, a heavy weight on her chest.

She awoke when he got into bed with her, and though he murmured “Go back to sleep,” she turned around into his arms. It occurred to her that she would find great difficulty sleeping without him, although they had only slipped into the practice in the last two weeks.

“I should have slept in my own bed,” she murmured, her cheek nestled against his bare arm. She’d wanted his scent around her to soothe her to slumber but it hadn’t worked very well. The events of the evening spun around her head. However much she’d tried not to think of them, they returned to plague her.

“I’d have joined you if you had.” He kissed the top of her head and glanced down at her face. The room should have been dark, but someone had left one of the shutters over the window open.

Moonlight filtered through so she could see his features dimly delineated in silvery light. Tilting her chin up with a gentle touch of his fingers, he grazed her lips with his and they shared a long, sweet kiss. Faith loved the way he did that, as if he savoured every moment of it.

It went some way to smoothing her ruffled feathers. Here in this bed only they existed. Nothing else mattered. His strokes soothed, but they aroused as well and she felt the familiar dampness gather at the apex of her thighs.

He broke the kiss, breathing a little heavier than before. He framed her face with his hands, studied it as if he’d never seen her before. “Perhaps you’re better leaving town for a while.”

Alarm streaked through her. “Why? What’s happened? Is it about tonight?” The anxiety that had clawed at her ever since the ball increased in strength, her stomach twisting into knots. “They hate me, don’t they? Do they know we’re not married?”

He sighed. “Were it merely that I’d remedy it tomorrow, despite your misgivings. I’ve only given you time because you asked for it, but now, I fear you’d be better off without me.”

“What are you talking about?” She was the liability, not him.

“Did they find out I’m the widow of a mere lieutenant?” Her heart plummeted. They’d rejected her, not him.