Jane stared at the man standing before her, the Duke of Ashbourne. Her mind scrambled backward, frantically cataloging every word she had spoken to him. She had called his clothes plain. She had told him he was financially worthless. She had complained about the suffocating nature of the very society he essentially ruled. A hot, prickling wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. She felt the blood drain entirely from her face, leaving her skin icy and taut.
Henry Cavendish stepped toward her, his hand lifted, a small aborted gesture as if he meant to touch her arm. "Jane."
He knew her name. Of course he did. He was a duke. People whispered the names of the desperate and the destitute, just as loudly as they whispered the names of the wealthy.
She flinched away from his hand. The movement was entirely involuntary, a sharp jerk of her shoulder that made his arm drop back to his side. The regret in his stormy gray eyes deepened, but Jane could not stomach it. She did not want his pity. She especially did not want it broadcast to the entire staring room.
"Do not," Jane breathed. Her voice was thin, brittle.
She did not wait for his reply. She turned on her heel, her worn satin slippers slipping slightly on the polished mahogany. The crowd parted for her. It was a terrifying parting of the Red Sea. Dowagers who had spent the last four years looking straight through her now stared with wide hungry eyes. Young men who had never bothered to ask her for a dance stepped back, bowing their heads in reflexive deference. She wasn't Jane the Spinster anymore. She was the woman the Duke of Ashbourne had touched.
She walked quickly, her chin held high, though her knees shook so violently she feared she might collapse. She kept her eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall.
"Jane!" Aunt Martha's voice was a triumphant screech.
Jane felt a claw-like grip close around her bicep. She was yanked into the shadows of the vestibule, away from the immediate glare of the ballroom. Jane braced herself for the shouting. She braced herself for the lecture on propriety, the threats of being sent back to Sussex on the morning coach.
Instead, Martha smiled. It was a terrible predatory thing. The older woman's eyes were practically vibrating with manic energy. She squeezed Jane's arm, her rings biting into Jane's flesh. "You sly, brilliant, wicked girl." Martha hissed, her breath smelling of sherry and mint. "I thought you were sulking. I thought you had given up. And all this time, you were setting a trap for Ashbourne."
Jane felt the contents of her stomach pitch. "Aunt, I didn't—"
"Do not play coy with me now," Martha interrupted, her voice trembling with glee. "A duke. Do you understand what this means? The creditors will back off tomorrow. Lord Hughes will undoubtedly propose to Charlotte by Tuesday out of sheer proximity to the connection. You have saved us."
Jane stared at her aunt's flushed, avaricious face. Martha did not care that Jane had been humiliated. She did not care that Jane had been made a public spectacle by a man amusing himself with a poor girl. All Martha saw was a ledger balancing in their favor.
"I am going home," Jane said, her voice entirely flat. She pulled her arm free with a violent jerk. Martha gasped, but Jane was already moving.
She grabbed her woolen cloak from a startled footman in the cloak room, ignoring his attempt to help her tie it. She pushed through the heavy front doors and out into the biting night air. The damp fog of London hit her face, a shocking welcome relief. The street was lined with carriages, the horses stamping restlessly on the cobblestones, blowing plumes of white steam into the dark.
"Lady Lynfield's carriage," the footman called out behind her.
Jane didn't wait. She walked down the stone steps, pulling the rough wool tightly around her throat. A light drizzle had begun to fall, leaving a fine mist on her hair and eyelashes. She stood in the damp street, wrapping her arms around her ribs, trying to keep herself together. She had wanted to be invisible. Instead, she had become the center of a cruel, glittering joke.
A heavy, dark carriage pulled up with a rattle of harnesses. She climbed inside before the groom could even lower the step properly. She slammed the door shut, sinking into the cracked leather seats. As the carriage lurched forward, pulling her away from the Alvington estate, Jane finally allowed herself to close her eyes. A single hot tear escaped, cutting a warm path down her freezing cheek. She scrubbed it away fiercely with the back of her glove. She would not cry over Henry Cavendish. She would pack her trunks. She would leave London. She was done playing the game.
The rented townhouse on Curzon Street smelled of stale toast and damp ash. The morning light filtering through the poorly washed windows was gray and unforgiving, perfectly matching Jane's mood. She sat at the small breakfast table, pushing a cold piece of scrambled egg around her plate with a tarnished fork. She had not slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the heavy heat of his hand on her waist and heard the mocking silence of the ballroom.
Across the table, Aunt Martha was a whirlwind of terrifying productivity. She was not eating. She was aggressively dictating letters to her bewildered secretary, a young man who looked as though he wanted to hide under the carpet.
"And ensure Lady Jersey receives a basket of those hot house peaches," Martha barked, pacing the threadbare rug. "We must capitalize on this instantly. The invitations will pour in by noon. We need new gowns. Jane, we must send for the modiste."
"I am not getting a new gown," Jane said quietly, not looking up from her plate. "And you are wasting your money on peaches. There will be no invitations."
Martha stopped pacing. She glared at Jane. "Do not be absurd. He danced with you. He snubbed Lord Alvington for you. The entire ton saw it."
"He made a fool of me," Jane corrected, her voice rising slightly. She dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the porcelain. "He is a man who despises society, and he used me as a prop to insult them. He proved that he could take the most invisible, worthless woman in the room and force them all to watch him dance with her. It was a joke, Aunt Martha. I was the punchline."
Martha waved her hand dismissively. "Who cares if it was a joke? You are attached to his name now. In this world, scandal is just a stepping stone if the title is high enough."
Jane closed her eyes. There was no reasoning with the woman. Martha lived in a world of titles and ledgers. Human emotion was a foreign language she refused to learn.
Before Jane could argue further, the heavy brass knocker on the front door sounded. It was not the polite, rhythmic tap of a morning caller. It was three solid, demanding thuds that rattled the window panes.
The house fell silent. Martha froze. The secretary dropped his pen. They heard the shuffling footsteps of their single aging butler moving down the hall. The latch clicked. The heavy door groaned open. A low, deep voice murmured something in the hallway. The sound traveled straight up Jane's spine. She knew that voice.