And what did Monica have? Two older brothers, that was what, with not a single thought of society or fashion between them. Her family lived in a respectable house just outside Mayfair, and her father was an esteemed scholar of law. Not an earl. Not even a baron. A scholar.

Monica considered herself fortunate to have been accepted into such august society as the one that surrounded her this evening. She herself had never wanted for admirers, but she wasn’t the type to flirt and invite the attentions of several gentlemen at once. In truth, Monica felt intimidated by many men and considered herself fortunate to have caught the eye of Augustine, Viscount Sommerfield.

Augustine didn’t intimidate her; he was genuinely adoring of her. Her parents were over the moon at her engagement, and the sooner Monica married Augustine, the happier they would be. Who would have thought that their daughter would marry a titled man and become a countess?

Monica knew that Honor believed her understanding with Augustine was all by design, but in truth, it had happened quite honestly. At first, Monica had been amused by Augustine’s attentions. He was a bit too round for her tastes, and he could be a bit of a bumbler at times. But as days turned into weeks, she’d grown rather fond of him. He was very attentive and sincere in his devotion to her. It certainly didn’t hurt that he would one day be an earl, or that Monica would preside over the Beckington estates as Lady Beckington. Monica had grown accustomed to the idea, and she truly believed that she and Augustine would have a family, and she would live quite contentedly.

She hadn’t really given any thought to his stepsisters until her mother suggested that six in a marriage of two might be a bit crowded. “I hope you won’t need to vie for Sommerfield’s attentions with all those girls,” she’d said laughingly. Or, “Ah, isn’t Honor’s gown lovely? I hope there will be enough money for you to be clothed in that manner when you are countess.”

Now Monica did not see a gaggle of stepsisters in her rosy view of the future.

Speaking of which... Monica glanced over her shoulder now. A pair of gentlemen had intercepted Honor, and they were laughing as if she’d said something terribly witty. Even from here, Monica could see the twinkle in Honor’s eye.

Monica turned away from that scene and was startled by Lady Chatham, who had appeared from seemingly nowhere to stand directly beside her.

“Lady Chatham,” Monica said, dipping a curtsy.

“Good evening, Miss Hargrove,” she said cheerfully. “Have you come alone? Where is your handsome fiancé?”

“He won’t be attending this evening. He had a prior commitment.”

“I see,” Lady Chatham said.

Monica could almost hear the little mice wheels turning in the woman’s head, stuffing away gossip to be doled out in enticing little bits to her friends on the morrow. “I have come in the company of my cousin, Mr. Hatcher,” Monica added.

“Mr. Hatcher is a dear,” Lady Chatham said, as if she knew him. “I see the Cabots have arrived. At least Miss Cabot is wearing pearls in her hair and no one’s bonnet this evening.”

Really, that entire incident had spiraled out of control. Monica had commissioned the hat, but when she’d gone round, the price was much greater than the proprietress had led her to believe it would be. She hadn’t intended to purchase it—but why did Honor have to be the one to take it?

“That was just a trifle, really. I didn’t care for the bonnet at all.” She smiled, hoping that bit of untruth was not noticed.

“Well, neither did I,” Lady Chatham agreed. “It seemed to me designed to draw attention, and that, Miss Hargrove, is not the way young ladies should behave.”

Monica didn’t think that the bonnet was as showy as that, and neither did she think for a moment that Honor was concerned about appearances to old women like Lady Chatham. Quite the contrary—Honor was perfectly happy to take risks, to flaunt society rules. That was the difference between them—Honor always pushed, and Monica followed the rules.

“Miss Hargrove.”

Monica turned slightly to see Thomas Rivers standing beside her.

“Lady Chatham,” he said, inclining his head to the older woman, before smiling at Monica again. “Miss Hargrove, will you do the honor of standing up with me?”

Lady Chatham waved her fingers and trilled, “Of course, of course! You must dance and be merry, Miss Hargrove, for soon you will be a married woman.”

“Pardon?” Monica said, confused as to what, exactly, Lady Chatham had meant, but she’d already swanned away.

Mr. Rivers led her onto the ballroom floor. The dance began with a pair of turns, one way, then the other. On the second turn, Monica happened to catch sight of George Easton, who, surprisingly, was watching her. Monica twirled the other way.

George Easton, here? She knew Easton instantly, of course—everyone knew him. One did not claim to be the nephew of the king and escape attention. Recently, she’d heard he had jeopardized his fortune.

How had he gained entrance? Lady Feathers, the lead patroness of the assembly, was quite strict in her rules of entry, and Monica could not imagine that she would ever allow the bastard son of the Duke of Gloucester to enter, particularly as the current duke was disdainful of the man he called a pretender.

The dance came to an end, and Mr. Rivers escorted Monica from the dance floor. She declined his offer for a drink and watched him move away, searching for his next dance partner.

Monica scanned the crowd—there was Honor again, dancing now, her step light and free as she skipped around Charles Braxton in her figures, while Braxton admired her like an adoring child. Grace was on the dance floor as well, her smile brilliant beneath the candelabras, her dancing more elegant than her sister’s.

Monica turned away, unwilling to watch. She was seeking a familiar face to talk to when she felt a tingling in her spine—she could feel someone looking at her, and when she turned about, she was surprised once again to see George Easton staring directly at her.

Not only was his gaze locked on her, he was walking purposefully in her direction. Monica thought perhaps she was mistaken, but Easton headed right to her. He smiled charmingly and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove, may I be so bold as to present myself to you? I hope you will forgive me, but I saw you with Rivers and I’ve not been able to turn away. I am George Easton, at your service.”

Was he not aware that a gentleman did not approach a lady without invitation? Monica glanced slyly around the room to see if anyone had noticed this breach of etiquette. “How do you do, Mr. Easton,” she said, smiling a little. She found his approach completely suspect, and yet she couldn’t help but be a bit flattered by it.

He gave her a dazzling smile. “I confess I am quite captivated.”

Gentlemen had, at times, been captivated with her, but they hadn’t admitted it quite like that. “Are you, indeed?” she asked, smiling coyly. “How unusual it is to have a gentleman approach without invitation, and make such a proclamation.”

“I am an unusual man,” he said cheerfully. “But I see I’ve been too forthright. I’ve been accused of being so in the past, but when it comes to beautiful women, it is a habit I cannot seem to break. May I offer you a glass of punch, Miss Hargrove?”

What was happening here? Why was he talking to her like this? She didn’t believe for a moment that a man of his charm and fine looks and reputation would be the least bit captivated by her. She was suddenly wildly curious as to what he was about. “You may.”

He led her across the room to the sideboard, nodded at the footman attending and accepted a glass of punch to hand to Monica.

“Thank you.”

Easton smiled again, his eyes softening around the corners. He really was quite handsome, what with his square jaw, blue eyes and brown hair streaked with gold. Monica wished Augustine had more hair, really; his was beginning to thin on top.

Easton touched her elbow lightly and led her away from the sideboard. “You will undoubtedly think me bold again if I were to proclaim there is not a lovelier woman in attendance tonight, but I must say it is so.”

He was perhaps a bit blind. “But there are so many women here tonight,” Monica said.

“None that can compare to you.” With his finger, he casually caressed her wrist. His eyes seemed almost to dance, and Monica was beginning to appreciate how the man might have earned his notorious reputation of bedding women with ease.

“I was watching you dance with Rivers,” he said, his gaze sliding to her décolletage. “Admiring your figure.”

“I saw you,” Monica said.

He leaned closer, his head next to hers, and whispered, “I found myself rather envious of Sommerfield.”

“Perhaps you should tell that to Lord Sommerfield.”

“And have him call me out?”

Monica couldn’t help but smile at that preposterous notion. A man like Easton had nothing to fear from Augustine when it came to duels or fights, or however men settled challenges between them. Monica was intrigued by Easton’s sudden interest in her...but not fooled by it. She wondered what gain he sought from it. An introduction to someone, perhaps? To Augustine? She looked him squarely in the eye and said, “I cannot help but wonder at your interest in me.”

He looked surprised by her forthrightness. “I should think a woman as comely as you must have gentlemen admiring you at every turn, Miss Hargrove.”

He didn’t truly think she would believe him? It was so wildly preposterous given the differences in their stations and circumstances.

“I had rather hoped you would do me the honor of standing up with me so that I might admire you a bit longer than decorum will allow,” he said, and put out his hand for hers.