“Mademoiselle, you speak French?” “Fluently,” Hannah replied, taking a delicate sip of her soup. An émigré priest fleeing the revolution found refuge in my parish. He taught me the language in exchange for extra rations of bread. She said it so naturally, without a shred of embarrassment about her past, that Rousseau was utterly charmed.

He leaned in, captivated. For the next two hours, Hannah and the French diplomat engaged in a rapid, brilliant conversation about continental politics, philosophy, and the agricultural reforms in Normandy. Augusta sat at the head of the table. Her face was frozen. She couldn't understand a word they were saying, but she could see the raw admiration in Rousseau's eyes.

She could hear the musical, confident cadence of Hannah's voice. Colin stared into his wine glass, scowling. Clara looked as though she had swallowed a lemon. Samuel sat at the opposite end of the table from his mother.

He watched Hannah, his dark eyes intense, tracking the slight curve of her lips as she made the diplomat laugh. Samuel reached for his glass, taking a slow sip to hide his smirk. He hadn't known she spoke French. He realized with a sudden, sharp jolt of clarity, that there were many things he didn't know about his future wife.

After dinner, as the men retired for cigars and the women withdrew to the drawing room, Colin caught Hannah in the dimly lit corridor. He smelled of heavy wine and expensive cologne. He blocked her path. A parlor trick?

Colin slurred slightly, leaning in close. “You think speaking the language of a bunch of decapitated royals makes you one of us?” Hannah did not step back. She held her ground. “I know I am not one of you, Lord Colin,” she said quietly. “Then walk away,” he whispered, his eyes glittering with malice.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy envelope. He shoved it against her chest. “There is £500 in there. It's more money than you've ever seen.

Take it. Disappear before Saturday. Samuel only pities you. He'll grow tired of the stench of poverty on you within a month.

” Hannah looked down at the envelope.

She reached up and took it from his hand. Colin smiled. A nasty victorious smirk. Smart girl.

Hannah walked over to the small table holding a silver condalabra. She didn't open the envelope. She simply held the corner of it to the flame. The paper caught instantly.

Colin's jaw dropped. Are you mad? That is £500. Hannah watched the fire eat the edges, illuminating her face in sharp relief.

When the flames crept close to her fingers, she dropped the burning envelope onto the stone hearth, watching it curl into black ash. She turned back to Colin, her eyes were empty of fear. “Your brother's debts are staggering,” Hannah said, her voice dropping to a freezing whisper. You are spending money that does not exist.

Keep your bribes, Lord Colin. And next time you try to intimidate a woman who has survived on boiled cabbage and ice water baths, try to bring something more threatening than paper. She walked past him without a second glance. Colin stood in the hallway, staring at the ashes on the stone, his smuggness completely shattered.

The morning of the wedding was pale and overcast. the sky the color of hammered pewter. St. George's in Hanover Square was packed to the rafters. The pews were crammed with dukes, earls, viscounts and their gossiping wives. They had come for blood.

They had come to see the Duke of Holly marry a beggar. In the vestibule of the church, Augusta stood waiting with Samuel. The dowager duchess wore a triumphant look. Today was the day Hannah would wear the mustard velvet monstrosity.

The entire ton would see her looking like a garish, tasteless clown. It would forever brand her as an outsider. It is not too late, Samuel, Augusta whispered, adjusting her silk gloves. You can still enull this madness.

Samuel ignored her, staring straight ahead at the heavy oak doors. The organ began to play. The heavy doors groaned open. Augusta turned, a sneer already forming on her lips, ready to see the hideous yellow gown.

The sneer died on her face. Hannah stood in the doorway. She was not wearing the mustard velvet. She wore a gown of pure, breathtakingly simple white silk.

It had no ruffles, no heavy lace, no garish embroidery. It was tailored with such exacting precision that it moved like liquid glass around her body. The neckline was elegant and modest, drawing the eye up to her long neck and the sharp, striking angles of her face. Her dark hair was swept up into a severe, elegant twist, held in place by a single silver comb.

She did not look like an orphan. She looked like a Roman statue brought to life. cold, regal, and utterly untouchable. A collective, stunned hush fell over the 300 aristocrats in the pews. The whispering stopped instantly.

Augusta's face went chalk white. She whipped her head around, looking for Madame Deloqua in the back rows. How? How had this happened?

She didn't know that three days ago Hannah had handed the mustard velvet dress to Mrs. Higgins and told her to cut it up for dust rags. She didn't know that the estate's seamstresses, loyal to Hannah, after she had secured better coal for their drafty workrooms, had stayed up for two consecutive nights, altering a plain silk gown Hannah had bought at a fraction of the cost from a warehouse in Cheapside. Hannah walked down the aisle. She did not lower her eyes.

She met the stairs of the ton with a cool unblinking gaze. Samuel watched her approach, his chest tightened. For the first time in his life, the impenetrable wall of duty and exhaustion that shielded his heart cracked. He had wanted a capable partner.

He had not expected a queen. When she reached the altar, Samuel took her hand. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was firm. You look, Samuel murmured, his voice tight.

Formidable. We have a war to win your grace, Hannah whispered back, her eyes fixed on the altar. I dressed for it. The ceremony was a blur of ancient Latin and heavy incense.

When they turned to face the congregation as the Duke and Duchess of Holly, Hannah felt the sudden crushing weight of the title. It was invisible, but it was there, settling over her shoulders like an iron mantle. The reception at Holly House was an exercise in high-stakes maneuvering. The ballroom was suffocatingly crowded.

Augusta was desperate. Her wardrobe trap had failed. Her dinner trap had failed. She needed a killing blow.

Halfway through the breakfast, as Hannah was expertly navigating a conversation with the intimidating Duchess of Devonshire, the crowd suddenly parted, Lady Caroline entered the circle. She was the daughter of an earl, stunningly beautiful with spun gold hair and calculating blue eyes. She was the woman Augusta had desperately wanted Samuel to marry. She was also allegedly the woman who had broken Samuel's heart before he left for the continent years ago.