Beatrix felt her throat tighten. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t explain,” Beatrix said miserably, “except to say that I’ve deceived him.”

Amelia glanced at her in surprise. “That doesn’t sound like you. You’re the least deceptive person I’ve ever known.”

“I didn’t mean to do it. And he doesn’t know that it was me. But I think he suspects.”

“Oh.” Amelia frowned as she absorbed the perplexing statement. “Well. This does seem to be a muddle. Perhaps you should confide in him. His reaction may surprise you. What is it that Mother used to say whenever we pushed her to the limits of her patience? . . . ‘Love forgives all things.’ Do you remember?”

“Of course,” Beatrix said. She had written that exact phrase to Christopher in one of her letters. Her throat went very tight. “Amelia, I can’t discuss this now. Or I’ll start weeping and throw myself to the floor.”

“Heavens, don’t do that. Someone might trip over you.”

Further conversation was forestalled as a gentleman came to ask Beatrix to dance. Although Beatrix hardly felt like dancing at the moment, it was the worst possible manners to refuse such an invitation at a private ball. Unless one had a plausible and obvious excuse, such as a broken leg, one danced.

And in truth, it was no hardship to partner this gentleman, Mr. Theo Chickering. He was an attractive and amiable young man, whom Beatrix had met during her last season in London.

“Would you do me the honor, Miss Hathaway?”

Beatrix smiled at him. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Chickering.” Letting go of her sister’s hand, she went with him.

“You look lovely tonight, Miss Hathaway.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” Beatrix had worn her best gown, made of shimmering aniline violet. The bodice was scooped low, revealing a generous expanse of fair skin. Her hair had been curled and swept up with a multitude of pearl-tipped pins—other than that, she wore no adornment.

Feeling the hairs on her nape prickle with awareness, Beatrix sent a quick glance around the room. Her gaze was immediately caught by a pair of cool gray eyes. Christopher was staring at her, unsmiling.

Chickering gracefully pulled her into the waltz. Following the completion of one turn, Beatrix glanced over her shoulder, but Christopher was no longer staring at her.

In fact, he didn’t glance at her even once after that.

Beatrix forced herself to laugh and dance with Chickering, while privately reflecting that there was nothing so trying as pretending you were happy when you weren’t. Discreetly she watched Christopher, who was inundated with women who wanted to flirt with him and men who wanted to hear war stories. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to associate with the man whom many were calling England’s most celebrated war hero. Christopher bore it all with equanimity, looking composed and courteous, occasionally flashing a charming smile.

“It’s hard for a fellow to challenge that,” Chickering told Beatrix dryly, nodding in Christopher’s direction. “Fame, great wealth, and a full head of hair. And one can’t even despise him, because he singlehandedly won the war.”

Beatrix laughed and gave him a mock-pitying glance. “You’re no less impressive than Captain Phelan, Mr. Chickering.”

“By what measure? I wasn’t in the military, and I have neither fame nor great wealth.”

“But you do have a full head of hair,” Beatrix pointed out.

Chickering grinned. “Dance with me again, and you can view my abundant tresses at your leisure.”

“Thank you, but I’ve already danced with you twice, and any more would be scandalous.”

“You have broken my heart,” he informed her, and she laughed.

“There are many delightful ladies here who would be happy to mend it,” she said. “Please go and favor them—a gentleman who dances as well as you should not be monopolized.”

As Chickering left her reluctantly, Beatrix heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Beatrix.”

Although she wanted to cringe, she squared her shoulders and turned to face her former friend. “Hello, Prudence,” she said. “How are you?”

Prudence was sumptuously attired in an ivory gown, the skirts a massive froth of blond lace caught up at intervals with pink silk rosebuds. “I am very well, thank you. What a fashionable dress . . . you look very grown-up tonight, Bea.”

Beatrix smiled wryly at this bit of condescension coming from a girl who was a year younger than herself. “I’m twenty-three years old, Pru. I daresay I’ve looked grown-up for quite a while now.”

“Of course.”

A long, awkward pause ensued.

“Do you want something?” Beatrix asked bluntly.

Prudence smiled and drew closer. “Yes. I want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“You’ve been a loyal friend. You could easily have spoiled things for Christopher and me by revealing our secret, but you didn’t. You kept your promise, and I didn’t believe that you would.”

“Why not?”

“I suppose I thought that you might have tried to attract Christopher’s attention to yourself. As ludicrous as that would have been.”

Beatrix tilted her head slightly. “Ludicrous?”

“Perhaps that’s not the right word. I meant unsuitable. Because a man in Christopher’s position needs a sophisticated woman. Someone to support his position in society. With his fame and influence, he may enter politics someday. And he could hardly do that with a wife who spent most of her time in the forest . . . or the stables.”