Read the First Chapters

Catherine averted her gaze and turned her face to the carriage window. London’s bustling streets made it difficult for their vehicle to progress. Her mother was glancing around, and when she was not, tapping, perhaps a little impatiently, upon her reticule; she was on a mission again, determined to make the most of the visit to the theatre. Her father had paid nine shillings for a shared balcony box – sufficient to allow them a taste of high society.

Her fingers toyed with her necklace, a new trinket that seemed to weigh more heavily than it ought, as she hoped to evade her mother’s instructions that evening.

“Straighten your back, Cathy. Let people see your new necklace. Your father was very generous in giving you the funds to buy it.”

Well, thought Catherine with a slight inward sigh, this would be no such evening. Her mother would do what mothers always seemed to do: command and correct.

As her mother chattered away, Catherine’s thoughts drifted to the theatre, the one place where she could escape her mother’s expectations – if only for a few hours. The theatre was her sanctuary, where she might lay aside her part and be herself. She had long since learnt to smile, nod, and don her role as one might a gown ill-suited to one’s shape, but sometimes, she wondered if she would ever be more than a pawn in her mother’s social game.

After a last-minute inspection of Catherine’s hair and dress, which at length won her approval, her mother signalled to her husband that they were ready to leave the carriage. As she said, she had ensured they arrived early enough to ‘mingle.’

A visit to the theatre in London in 1812 was no mere cultural pastime – it was a vital social occasion, and one of the most important of the season, for which no invitation was required. With sufficient money, one could mix with the ton’s upper members.

The Berrington family from Queen Square in Bloomsbury, London – a still fashionable address though nowhere near Grosvenor Square – was on its way to the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden. As the carriage advanced, the Doric portico in Bow Street emerged ahead, its four fluted columns rising above the throng.

This was Catherine’s third visit, and despite her mother’s constant nudging, it had become one of her favourite activities during her debut.

As they alighted from the carriage, the street echoed with a commotion of sounds, from the rhythmic clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones to the lively chatter of passersby. Many came just to watch the elegant theatregoers in their finest ensembles. Carriages of various sizes and designs jostled for space, their liveried footmen announcing with due ceremony the arrival of affluent occupants.

Catherine marvelled at the theatre, its magnificent entrance, the grand hall illuminated by sparkling chandeliers, and the statues looking down on the patrons in the salon on their way to the private boxes. Yet, as she observed the finely dressed women and their dashing partners, she could not help but wonder: Did any of them know what it was like to enter this world with no name? How many of them had been born into it while she, only a few months ago, had been nothing but a girl in Hampshire, a world away from the glamour and expectations of high society, dreaming of a life like this?

Catherine admired the beautiful, elegant gowns worn by the ladies in attendance. Silk rustled like whispers; taffeta shimmered with each turn of a wrist. Perfume drifted through the air, light, floral, and clinging.

But most of all, she looked forward to the performance. This spectacle would release her from the cage of expectations, allowing her to escape into another world entirely.

To watch a play unfold was to step into another realm. The actors, the singers, the graceful dancers – all drew her in until the rest of the theatre itself faded from view. Her parents, the murmuring crowd, even the glittering chandeliers dissolved into the shadows of her mind. It was a rare and cherished escape, akin to the quiet delight of slipping away with a book into her favourite hidden nook.

“Look, Mr. Beresford is here. Let us make him notice us. He danced with you two weeks ago at the Stanhopes’. He has five thousand a year.”

Catherine looked in the gentleman’s direction. Her mother, catching his eye, held her gaze a moment, and when the gentleman noticed them, he graciously bowed, deep and formal, first to her mother and then to Catherine. She remembered dancing with him – he had a strange, high-pitched laugh, and she shuddered.

The theatre, for all its glitter, required its own performance. The price of attending was to play her part while her mother mingled and introduced her to new acquaintances. She had begun writing down the names of everyone she met in a notebook, lest she forget them, which was a major faux pas, as she had learnt from experience.

She did not resent her mother. Tiresome though the efforts may have been, they came from a place of love. If only they came with less force. Her mother only wanted the best for her – to find a wealthy, prestigious husband who would elevate her to high society and secure a promising future.

Catherine’s mother stood tall, her posture radiating authority as she surveyed the throng of patrons with keen, assessing eyes. A faint smile played on her lips, hinting at her excitement. Catherine, for her part, felt a familiar stir of impatience. She knew that smile, that eager look in her mother’s eyes – it was a look that always meant more introductions, more expectations. She yearned for a quiet moment, free from the pressure to perform, but she knew better than to voice such thoughts aloud.

She nudged Catherine gently, her finger pointing toward a group of gentlemen. “Look, dear,” she said, her voice a whisper filled with anticipation. “That gentleman in the blue waistcoat is quite distinguished – his family has been in society for generations.”

This was her arena, and each interaction was a carefully choreographed dance to elevate their status. Catherine felt the familiar pressure build within her – a mix of pride and trepidation as she prepared to follow her mother into this world of artifice and ambition.

“Remember, dear, to smile and be gracious,” she reminded Catherine for what felt like the hundredth time. “You never know who might be watching.”

She almost frowned at her mother’s regular warning. Each outing reminded her that her worth hinged on her ability to attract a suitor. Was that all she was destined to be?

She remembered her early impatience to join the bustle of London, lured by the promise of art and entertainment. Yet it had not taken long for her to understand that such pleasures were, to her mother’s mind, merely a stage upon which she might be noticed. Even her patroness, with her polished manners, had joined in the refrain: behave as the ladies do who wish to attract a husband. Smile, but do not laugh too freely; walk with grace but never hurry; hold your head high yet never appear proud. The rules pressed in upon her like the stays of her corset – meant to shape and support yet leaving her scarcely room to breathe.

Suppressing a sigh, Catherine acquiesced with a nod. “Yes, Mother.”

Upon entering the theatre’s upper halls, they noticed that, despite arriving in good time, numerous patrons were already mingling and chatting. Mrs. Berrington immediately spotted a friend of her husband’s in the salon and gestured to him to take his family to greet them. Although not ideal companions, she judged that any company was preferable to standing alone.

“Mrs. Berrington,” Mrs. Clayton greeted with a saccharine smile, her voice dripping with feigned warmth. “How lovely to see you here! I trust you are enjoying the evening?”

“Oh, indeed, Mrs. Clayton. The theatre is always a delight,” Mrs. Berrington replied, trying to match her enthusiasm.

“Ah, the theatre,” Mrs. Clayton mused, her eyes scanning the room as if she were assessing the competition. “A perfect venue for young ladies to showcase their finery and charm, is it not? My dear Georgiana has been preparing for this evening for days. Is that not right, my darling?”

“Yes, Mama,” Miss Clayton replied, her voice light and pleased as she adjusted the ribbons of her gown, the lavender silk shimmering in the candlelight. “I do hope Mr. Beresford will remark on my gown. It’s quite the latest fashion, you know.”

Catherine cast a glance at her mother, curious to see how she bore the emergence of competition.

“Indeed, it is,” Mrs. Clayton responded with a nod, her eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked to Catherine. “Such lovely colours. Much better than those dreary, faded dresses some young ladies wear these days. It really is a shame when families cannot afford to keep their daughters properly outfitted for the season.”

Catherine’s mother, to this, did her duty and praised Miss Clayton’s gown for the evening, which, in fact, was beautiful. Made from the finest silk fabric, the gown boasted a soft, pastel shade of lavender that shimmered under the candlelight’s glow. However, her mother did not stop there; she finished by praising the gown with a well-directed barb, asking whether the dress was the one she had worn to such and such a ball, thereby insinuating that she did not have enough dresses for the season.

Catherine’s cheeks flushed, and her hands trembled. How cruel it was to remind her of her own wardrobe’s limitations. Everybody knew repetition was necessary, since the Season stretched for several months, and there were numerous events to attend. Catherine herself was not exempt from wearing a gown twice, which her mother was well aware of. She had to remind herself that, in fact, they had started the unpleasant exchange. As Catherine forced a smile to hide her discomfort, she wondered if this was the only way to compete.

Then her mother’s gloved fingers closed briefly around Catherine’s wrist – firm, steady – before she resumed her composed smile.

Deep down, she felt like they were performers in a play, reciting lines they had memorised rather than expressing their true selves.

Of course, Catherine knew that her mother was aware that Miss Clayton had thirteen thousand for a dowry, three thousand more than her own daughter, and that was a mortal offence in her eyes. Now she had heard they were interested in Mr. Beresford, too.

Catherine tried to be friendly to this young lady, especially after her mother had attacked her dress. It was not a hardship for her, as she was usually cheerful and sociable. Still, her endeavour proved difficult because the other lady, Catherine suspected, considered herself superior to her on the premise that she was two years older and had more to offer financially. Would Miss Clayton ever see her as a friend rather than a rival? Or would she forever be overshadowed by her more fortunate peers?

Catherine soon learnt that people often sought to hold their rank over others less fortunate, and this included not only the hardened individuals of the season but also the offspring of such parents.

“… I did not mind his company, you understand, but Mr. Barton possesses little merit, being merely a second son. I do not know how I will let him down…”

At that point, Catherine was only half listening, and her eyes wandered behind Miss Clayton. At that point, Catherine scarcely listened at all; her eyes fixed upon someone behind Miss Clayton.

Her body froze.

About thirty feet away, a tall gentleman was greeting someone. She glanced at her partner to see if she noticed her change in demeanour, but she was still speaking away. She looked back toward the gentleman and gulped. She stepped half behind Miss Clayton so that she could still see him, but her person would be hidden from notice. She glanced away, reminding herself to act composed, and all she wanted was to remain invisible.

She knew how ridiculous she was; the gentleman did not know her and probably never would. He could have his choice among the most accomplished and lovely young ladies. Surely, a gentleman of his stature would never cast a glance toward someone so ordinary as herself. She forced herself to concentrate on her partner, but it was a struggle.

It was him.

Her heart beat at twice its normal speed. Not long ago, she had learnt his status. For Catherine, he was…well, he was, for all intents and purposes, unattainable. Nevertheless, he was everything a gentleman should be and more. Indeed, he was most handsome, his features having matured over the years.

Catherine remembered their first encounter as if it had happened yesterday.

Four years ago

She was not yet fourteen. It was a beautiful day in Hyde Park, and she was there with her father and governess to enjoy the fresh air. She and her father were watching the ducks and swans upon the Serpentine. To their left, she noticed a young man and a girl, possibly ten or eleven years old, who were better prepared and were feeding the birds.

The young man was tall and handsome, with dark hair, and the little girl, nicely dressed, had the same colouring. As she enjoyed herself, her eyes sparkled with laughter. Catherine found herself watching the pair, the birds flocking to them as if they were old friends. She wished her brother would be as attentive to her as the young man was to that little girl; unfortunately, her own brother was always busy, if he was at home at all.

The young man noticed her looking their way. After a few moments, he leaned down and whispered something into the little girl’s ear. The little girl giggled, took a piece of her own bread, approached Catherine, and shyly offered it to her. Catherine was touched by the girl’s kindness and expressed her gratitude for the offering. She then looked up at the young man.

That was when it happened.

Their eyes met, and for the first time, Catherine was affected by the presence of a gentleman. To her, he was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen, even more handsome than her brother, and she weakened at his smile. And smile he did.

Then the young man welcomed the young lady back, presumably his sister, and they continued feeding the birds. Catherine enjoyed following their actions. She glanced their way a few times because she, by then, considered him her kind hero and wanted to remember him. Then she looked over for the last time, but they had already left. She forgot about the ducks and the swans and turned to search for them. She felt a sense of loss when she found and watched the retreating figure of the first gentleman who had touched her heart.

Catherine did not even react when Miss Clayton saw a more deserving acquaintance and left her. She lost the battle and looked back toward the gentleman. Her reactions to his presence were the same as ever – her heartbeat quickened, and the fluttering in her stomach returned. She closed her eyes for a moment to gather herself. It would not be wise to be entirely under the control of a man who did not even know she existed and likely never would. She looked at her favourite one more time with greater detachment this time.

Was that a lorgnette?

She frowned, biting her lower lip. Heaven forbid, he should prove one of those foppish gentlemen. In her opinion, if a man spent a lot of time and energy on his appearance, it hid a defect in his personality. Though it was still her debut season, she had already formed this opinion after encountering several such gentlemen, including some of her brother’s acquaintances. Her father needed glasses to read, but he was much older than her gentleman. She was sure that he could see perfectly well without it.

That notwithstanding, she found him immaculately dressed as always, thankfully not dandyish. His dark hair was artfully disordered – not enough to seem careless, yet enough to look the thing. His brown eyes were penetrating, revealing his intelligence. His nose was nobly straight, and his mouth was almost symmetrical, but she had seen it form a crooked arch, accompanied by a sarcastic look; she liked that. He had matured over the last four years; his shoulders were broader, and his body had grown heavier and more muscular.

Her covert examination of his person so occupied her that she was almost caught unawares. Two things happened simultaneously: he turned and headed toward their group, while her mother approached directly from behind her husband and stopped right in the gentleman’s way. And then, Catherine heard her mother’s voice.

“Oh, my lord, how nice to see you here! Lord Aylesbury, are you not?”

His lordship was naturally taken aback by the matron’s blatant behaviour. He had to balance himself so as not to topple over her.

Catherine did not know what to think. Her mother surely did not know the gentleman! Oh, mother, approaching him without an introduction?

“My son, Robert Berrington, has spoken highly of you, my lord. That is why I sent you an invitation to my daughter’s coming-out ball. Of course, I know you must be very busy and could not attend. But how fortunate we meet! You would like to meet my Catherine at least, I am sure. She is a lovely young lady, you will see. If I may?” And with that, she all but steered his lordship to Catherine, who was frozen to her spot a few feet away, though inside she screamed for a sinking hole. Any kind would do, she thought.

Suddenly, the gentleman, now she knew his name, was in front of her.

“Lord Aylesbury, may I present our beloved daughter, Miss Catherine Berrington of Pelbrook, Hampshire?”

“Catherine, this is Lord Alexander Nevill, the Most Honourable Marquess of Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire. Robert has talked very highly about him, remember?”

A marquess! Not just a baron or an earl, but a marquess.

Her mother’s voice sounded almost too eager, her words tumbling out in her haste to make an introduction. Catherine, taken aback, looked up at the imposing figure before her.

Lord Aylesbury was indeed a fine specimen of a man – tall, athletic, his posture as straight as his reputation – but it was not just his looks that made her heart flutter. She wished, with sudden violence, that her mother had chosen literally any other gentleman in the room.

His lordship stood rigid, his nostrils flaring; for a moment, he looked as though he might dismiss them sharply, but his upbringing would not permit him to repay a gentlewoman’s rudeness in kind. He bowed to Catherine in greeting.

Catherine closed her eyes in embarrassment and tried to calm herself. In her relentless pursuit of high-ranking single gentlemen, her dear mother had just offered her the opportunity to meet her longtime hero. She did not want to appear a fool before him.

A mortifyingly blessed encounter.

She took a deep breath, and when he straightened, she used all her education and performed a graceful, though slightly shaking, curtsey.

“Good evening, my lord. It is indeed an honour to make your acquaintance.” She greeted him quietly.

“It is a pleasure, I am sure,” he said flatly.

Catherine flinched at his dismissive attitude. An awkward silence thickened the air.

The lord looked away momentarily before turning, finally offering a topic. “So, this is your first year in society.”

“Yes, it is, Lord Aylesbury.”

“Congratulations on your debut.”

Catherine saw him almost roll his eyes, which he stopped in time with surprising control.

“And how do you find it?”

She felt flustered by her inability to speak to him beyond a few words. Unfortunately, before she could answer, her mother intervened.

“Oh, my lord, she is delighted to be out, a dream come true. You enjoy yourself, do you not, my dear Catherine?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to the lord. “Is she not lovely, my lord? And very good-natured, too…”

“Mama, please!” Catherine blushed a deep red in horror.

His lordship was taken aback, not so much for the matron’s manipulation as he had seen that enough. It was Miss Berrington’s reaction to her mother’s words. How interesting!

“Mrs. Berrington, I would hear your daughter’s thoughts on my question if I may.” He said this all the while, looking at Catherine.

Mrs. Berrington, rather than feeling chastised, graciously returned to her husband with a satisfied smile.

No gentleman had ever dismissed her mother so politely – nor invited her to speak as though her opinion mattered.

“It is… certainly an education, Your Lordship.” She answered evasively.

He made a show of adjusting his lorgnette and looked at Catherine with what seemed like contempt.

Catherine huffed inside as he played with his silly glasses.

“Indeed? How so?”

“It is not that I do not enjoy myself, on occasion,” she added bravely, “but I do not think young ladies out of the schoolroom are prepared for what society is really like. As I said, it is an education.”

“And what did you find that is not to your taste?” The gentleman smirked.

“Well, there are a few, but my mother told me that my opinions are quite impertinent and that I should not speak of such things.”

“You are not talking to your mother.”

She looked into his eyes. Seeing that his condescension had changed into slight interest, she found courage.

“Rules. The rules of engagement… are burdensome. What may be said and what may not. I am constantly checking myself. And the lack of honesty – that is the thing I detest the most. Constantly having to decipher what is said…” Catherine’s voice faltered for a moment, but then she took a deep breath and continued. “It is exhausting. And what is worse, we all play our parts so well, we forget what it means to be truthful.” She met Lord Aylesbury’s gaze; her voice quivered. “I would rather be myself, even if that means saying something I should not.”

His lordship pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing. He did not expect what Catherine said.

“Like now… Maybe it is just me…”

“No, it is not just you.” Lord Aylesbury found himself saying. “But can you imagine if people told the truth? Now, that would be something.”

A passing couple regarded her with evident curiosity, which made Catherine uncomfortable. She looked around at others, too, and several eyes were on them.

His lordship followed her eyes.

“Yes, well, thank you for your attention, my lord. It was an honour, but I do not want to keep you.”

“Are you dismissing me, Miss Berrington?” He was visibly surprised but quickly hid his amazement by faking an upset. No one had ever appeared so eager to escape his company. He did not realise that he did not want to leave the conversation at that moment.

“Oh, no, not at all… I just… Erm, are you looking forward to the play tonight? Much Ado About Nothing is one of my favourites!”

“I have seen it before. It is quite a silly play,” he said impassively.

“Lord Aylesbury, somehow, I do not believe that you do not understand the underlying message of the play. You actually prove it with your deception.”

“My deception? How so?”

She offered a slight shrug. “Everybody wears a mask, my lord, yet one must lower it to be vulnerable if one hopes to admit happiness.”

His lordship’s forehead wrinkled in surprise. “You have some strong opinions for one so young.”

“I have had time to think about it, and I think I did. I cannot wait to see it played out.”

“Everybody wears a mask, you say. Even you?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

Catherine looked away but then nodded. She looked into the gentleman’s eyes and spoke the truth. “I desperately want to be part of this world,” she gestured with her hand, “but I am afraid I will lose my true self in the process.”

The lord looked at her first without reaction, but his eyes flashed as he searched hers. Finally, he said, “I take it you spoke honestly. How refreshing!” He shook himself and said phlegmatically, “Why, I am like an open book, Miss Berrington – I have nothing to conceal.”

Catherine was about to laugh but controlled herself. She shook her head and simply responded, “My lord, then I wonder why you are wearing a lorgnette when you can see perfectly without it.”

His hand actually paused upon the offending object.

His stunned expression was all the reward Catherine could want. “Enjoy your evening, sir. I must return to my parents. Please excuse me.” Catherine’s voice was steady, but her heart raced in her chest.

As she curtsied and stepped away, the room seemed too bright. A lady passing too closely brushed Catherine’s sleeve, nearly forcing her off balance. She drew one careful breath, then another. She had spoken – truly spoken – and for a fleeting instant she wondered whether she had been reckless. If he thought her merely another simpering debutante, he would not think so now.

Two weeks before her family attended the theatre, Catherine had at last received her voucher from the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s, so they presented themselves at its regular Wednesday Ball.

Mrs. Berrington finally managed to introduce her daughter to Lady Sefton, one of the kinder patronesses, with a letter of recommendation from their country neighbour, Her Ladyship, Countess of Southampton.

For Catherine, the meeting was pure torture. They were invited to tea, and Catherine felt that every movement she made was under scrutiny; every answer was weighed to determine whether she was sufficiently qualified to enter the top echelon of society.

Mrs. Berrington, flushed with the nervous excitement of the occasion, spoke with more animation than discretion. “Catherine is quite accomplished, Lady Sefton. She plays the pianoforte beautifully – even our vicar declared her performance of Haydn’s sonatas to be almost professional. Of course, I tell her modesty becomes a young lady’s best, but what mother could help feeling proud?”

Lady Sefton smiled, one brow arching. “Indeed? Then I daresay London will not be long in discovering her talent. Music, my dear Mrs. Berrington, is a most useful charm – when used with taste.”

Catherine coloured slightly, lowering her gaze. She did love to play, but not to be paraded. To her, music had always been a refuge, not a display.

Thankfully, she was deemed worthy, and the family received her voucher to the prim and proper Almack’s. After her father paid the hefty annual fee of about ten guineas, she was all set to go.

They entered the deceivingly unimpressive building from the outside, dressed to perfection. Her mother was more than satisfied with the looks Catherine received. Countess Sefton, also dressed to perfection, greeted them with surprising warmth. Catherine, though momentarily taken aback by the lady’s graciousness, realised she must have considered her now one of her protégés. Still, her mind swirled with the unfamiliarity of it all.

She found herself introduced to a number of high-profile people – even a duke – their names and titles blurring together. She felt herself examined like a specimen under glass, yet she did her best to appear attentive and composed, praying that her face gave no sign of the frantic rush of thoughts she felt inside.

She was then presented to Lady Jersey, whose reputation for elegance and influence had long preceded her. Catherine had expected hauteur, yet the lady’s smile was warm, almost encouraging.

It was with quiet astonishment that she found herself introduced to Lord Byron, already the subject of both admiration and whispered reproach. He laughed with ease, styling himself a “humble poet” as he spoke to her, a glint of mischief in his eyes. Summoning her courage, Catherine mentioned Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, confessing that it had moved her.

She smiled and answered as required, though her thoughts lagged hopelessly behind the procession of names. Still, she held her ground, hoping that she might find her place among them with time.

After the flurry of introductions and formalities, Catherine slipped away from her parents and wandered among the guests at the edge of the room. The whispers and laughter swirled around her, and for the first time, she felt the thrill of possibility.

It was in this moment of reflection that she heard a gentleman speak nearby, his voice resonating with a confident, captivating tone that immediately caught her attention. The gentleman, though, was plainly miserable, and Catherine nearly smiled.

“I do not know what we are doing here. What a ridiculous rule to request gentlemen to appear only in knee-breeches, white cravats, and chapeau-bras. This is a disgrace! I hate these slippers; I feel like I’m wearing only stockings. They look ridiculous,” he huffed.

Catherine turned to take a better look at the gentleman who dared to voice his disapproval of the exalted patronesses’ mandates, but she could only see his back.

“This is going to be a dull evening, indeed. We should have gone to Watier’s. The food here is terrible. One cannot have a decent drink. What kind of hospitality is this, I ask you, from our dear patronesses?” He huffed and puffed as he looked around. “Most of all, I find the conversations quite displeasing – or better to say, the lack of decent conversation – of these simpering debutantes.”

Catherine felt a tightening in her chest at the biting comment. Simpering debutantes? Alas, she was one. How dare he! Did he suppose it so effortless to be thrust from the safety of one’s family into society’s glare? That these young ladies might possess qualities he had yet to perceive?

The gentleman continued. “Most can hardly breathe in my presence; they get all flustered. Do I resemble an ogre, then? Insupportable! Why did you persuade me to join you? Better yet… why did I let you persuade me?”

The gentleman turned – and there he was. Catherine could not breathe. She had last seen him passing along the street, grave and self-contained, a stack of books beneath his arm; now his voice carried irritation and disdain. The realisation halted her mid-turn. Catherine had considered him the epitome of what a gentleman should be; it was a revelation that he was, after all, human – a begrudging one. Her imagined hero possessed a decidedly unheroic temper.

As she turned to go back to her parents, she heard his companion scoff at him and address him as my lord. The word lingered.

Human or not, he belonged to a world she could not hope to enter.

Back in the theatre

His lordship looked after her as Catherine dismissed him. Did she indeed dismiss him, a lord? A marquess? Her social superior? He had to laugh to himself that it looked like she really did. Well, that was new. He could not recall the last time a young lady had ended a conversation with him by choice.

As he turned and continued his way to his box, he could not help but think of his conversation with the young lady. She surprised him. Why did he not take her first offer to leave her? What made him stay?

And then he realised he had forgotten to be his usual flirtatious self. He often engaged in some harmless compliments to discomfort the ladies when he tired of playing nice. He shook himself. Well, Miss Berrington, he contemplated nonetheless, may you not lose yourself in striving to belong among us. We are not worth it.

Nevill was yet to reach his twenty-sixth year, but he was well-known in the ton, which, in turn, had already jaded him. Yes, she was right. He wore a mask, too. He presented himself to the world as a nonchalant, eccentric aristocrat. It was his way of…of protecting himself in this society sometimes rife with competition and deception, although he never really put it into words.

Catherine would have been justly satisfied had she known that the lord did think of her after their meeting.

The following morning at breakfast, mother and son conversed.

“How was the theatre last night, Alex?” the Dowager Marchioness of Aylesbury asked, watching her son as he took his time to answer.

He gave a slight gesture. “It was an evening well spent.”

“Indeed? Have we not seen the play together last season?”

“As well you know, Mother, one does not necessarily only go to the theatre to watch the play.”

“True.” She smiled.

The lord continued to eat his roll. “Have you ever thought that the play wants us to realise and be brave enough to take off our masks… to let happiness in?”

Her ladyship put her fork down and contemplated. “Interesting notion. We all wear our masks, that is sure. Society could not operate without them. The play is about all kinds of deception – deliberate, vicious, and others, benign. Hmm. I do not know… I have worn mine for so long that I have forgotten what is beneath.”

Deep furrows appeared between his lordship’s brows.

“What an insightful, what a fresh viewpoint. Who said that?”

“Hmm. A young lady I met at the theatre.”

Lady Aylesbury looked up. “And does she have a name?”

Lord Nevill adjusted his seat. “Miss Berrington, Miss Catherine Berrington.”