Bella swirled the warm dregs in her crystal glass, hiding behind a massive potted fern that smelled faintly of dust. Society balls were cattle markets with better upholstery."I'm done, Philip," she muttered to her brother. "I'll marry the very next man who walks through those doors just to end this misery."The brass handles turned. The heavy oak parted. And in walked the Duke of Westford.Bella choked.Gaslight flickered, casting harsh, trembling shadows across the painted faces of London's elite. Lady Arrington's ballroom felt less like a celebration and more like a besieged fortress: there were too many bodies crammed into the stifling heat, too much lavender water masking the sharp scent of anxious sweat.Bella Holloway stood in a forgotten alcove, her yellow silk gown—three seasons old and twice let out at the seams—scratching an angry red line against her collarbone. She was tired: tired of the corset bruising her ribs, tired of pretending her family wasn't drowning, and overwhelmingly tired of the men in this room.Next to her, Philip tugged at his cravat. Her younger brother looked entirely too pale; his eyes kept darting across the swirling dancers to a dark corner where Lord Henry Cavenaugh held court. Cavenaugh was a man who smiled with his teeth and collected other people's desperation for sport. Philip owed him 2,000 pounds. They both knew Philip didn't have 2,000 pence."Stop looking at him," Bella said quietly. "You look like a rabbit waiting for the snare."Philip swallowed hard. "He sent a note this morning, B. He wants the first installment by Friday, or he goes to the magistrates."Bella closed her eyes. The orchestra launched into a frantic quadrille. Debtor's prison. The phrase tasted like ash in her mouth.Their father had left them a crumbling townhouse, a distinguished name, and a mountain of promissory notes. Bella had spent four years smiling at men with wet lips and soft hands, trying to secure a match that would save them. But she lacked a dowry, and worse, she lacked the ability to feign adoration. Men of the ton wanted simpering girls; Bella had all the softness of a rusted nail."I will speak to Aunt Matilda," Bella said, though they both knew their aunt had closed her purse strings a year ago."It's no use." Philip stared at his scuffed dancing shoes. "I've ruined us. You should have married Lord Davis when you had the chance.""Lord Davis was 62 and smelled of boiled cabbage and laudanum!" Bella snapped, her patience finally snapping like an over-tightened violin string. "I would rather walk into the Thames."She looked out at the glittering, writhing mass of society: fops in bright waistcoats, matrons calculating dowries behind painted fans. It was a meat market, plain and simple, and she was a cut of beef that had sat on the counter too long."I'm done, Philip," she said. The words slipped out, bitter and utterly exhausted. "I swear to God I'll marry the very next man who walks through those doors just to end this misery. Be he a butcher, a baker, or a chimney sweep. At least a sweep works for a living."