Patience Pemberton was twenty-seven years old, and she was attending yet another ball in a series of balls that had made no difference to her life whatsoever. She was by now so clearly on the shelf that she no longer gave a fig for manners and modesty and all the nonsense she had half-heartedly engaged with over the last several years. What was the point? She always felt somewhat demeaned by the end of the evening, having simpered and batted eyelashes and spent way too much time agreeing with various gentlemen about nothing important at all. Besides, she had her artwork, and things were going well. She had been engaged to paint the portrait of the dowager Lady Winter. A portrait of someone this important was an opportunity to demonstrate her talents, to be recognised, and to raise her profile among the members of the Royal Academy. She grinned to herself as she imagined slapping big gobs of vermilion paint across the faces of some of the smug gentlemen at the Academy.

“I don’t like that smile, Patience. It’s not ladylike.” Patience’s mother Lady Agnes Pemberton had glided up beside her. “Be on your best behaviour tonight.”

“I’m always on my best behaviour,” said Patience.

Lady Pemberton gave a small muffled sound that suggested she did not agree.

“Your behaviour will count this evening because that dress is not exactly—”

“Not exactly what?” asked Patience even though she knew what.

“—not exactly fashionable,” finished Lady Pemberton looking down at her daughter’s turquoise silk dress layered with delicate silver netting.

Several weeks ago, Patience had engaged in what her mother had subsequently referred to as “subterfuge of the highest order”. She had snuck out of the house with her maid and travelled to the modiste on her own. Without Lady Pemberton clucking about her and overriding her fashion decisions, she had been able to order a number of dresses that were more to her liking. Empire waistlines were all the rage in London, but they did not suit Patience’s full figure at all. She was keenly aware that these dresses dropped from beneath the shelf of her breasts like some kind of tent over her body. While this style suited a slim lady like those pictured in her mother’s periodicals, it was simply not becoming on her in particular. It made her feel as if there was something wrong with her body, and she knew there was not. She had examined her naked form in the mirror quite carefully and decided that she liked what she saw. She deserved a dress that made her feel beautiful, one with a lower waistline that would accentuate her curves.

“You have an artist’s eye, Miss Pemberton,” the modiste had declared. “Of course you do. And the colours you have chosen will bring out your eyes as well.”

“There is no point confining art to a canvas,” said Patience. “What you create here in your shop is just as important.”

The modiste smiled.

“You are too kind,” she said before stuffing a few pins in her mouth and gesturing for Patience to step up onto a block so that she might pin up the hem of the peacock blue velvet that was draped around her.

Back in the ballroom, Patience looked at her mother.

“The dress is not fashionable, but you must agree, it does suit me, does it not?”

Lady Pemberton’s answer was given reluctantly.

“It does, my dear. I just worry about you.”

“There’s no need for that,” said Patience. “Worry about George or Grace for a change.”

Lady Pemberton gave her daughter a wan smile as Patience turned her attention out towards the ballroom. She scanned the room with her iridescent blue-violet eyes, her senses registering the familiar twinkle of candlelight and scent of roses that always promised so much and delivered so little. Gentlemen were scarce tonight for some reason, and the walls were lined with young ladies chatting quietly and waiting to be chosen for a dance. She spied her friend Abigail Fernside across the room. She was fiddling nervously with her skirts and glancing about, a bit like a twitchy rabbit in a garden.

“I do believe Abigail may need a bit of emotional support tonight,” said Patience.

“Where is that girl’s mother?” asked Lady Pemberton. “She sends her daughter to these events with no more a chaperone than that distracted older sister of hers. And where is she? Off teasing some poor gentleman on the balcony no doubt.”

“I don’t think ‘poor’ accurately characterises any of the gentlemen here,” replied Patience with annoyance. “And I think it very uncharitable of you to suggest Harriet is teasing gentlemen. Is that not what we’re all here for? To tease someone into proposing?” Patience had had enough. Of this conversation and of so much more. “If you’ll excuse me, Mother.”

She stalked off, skirting the edge of the room as she made her way towards Abigail. As she was passing a couple of gentlemen, one in a black jacket and one in a red officer’s uniform, she couldn’t help but overhear a snippet of conversation.

“You should enjoy a dance with one of the ladies,” said the officer.

The second gentleman in the black jacket grunted in answer, then added, “These are girls, not women, Thomas. I won’t dance with girls who can only converse upon the most inane frivolities—minds filled with ribbons and gossip.”

Patience stopped short, her heart clenched in agitation at the words just spoken. The gentlemen were now just behind her. She hesitated but only for a moment. Turning on her heel, she brought herself face-to-face with the gentleman in the black jacket.

“You would be wise to keep your erroneous thoughts to yourself!” she said. “There is not a lady here who does not have a great deal more to be concerned about than ribbons and gossip. In fact, ribbons and gossip can make or break a lady’s life. Do you think we would spend so much time over our appearance and dress if it were not for the superficial and frankly childish attentions lavished upon the most beautiful and fashionable? Do you think a lady might find a husband by ignoring her appearance? And as for gossip, I know of several young ladies who have had their lives torn apart by a mere whisper. Do you think it an irrelevant concern then to know what is being spoken and by whom?!

Patience had come to the end of her rant. She heaved her chest to take an angry breath and was suddenly aware of the gentleman in the black jacket staring down at her. He was quite large and stood like a wall of muscle and silence in front of her. His black curly hair was cut close to his head, and he had a close-cut beard as well framing a face that was neither malicious in its appearance nor particularly welcoming.

After a considerable silence, the gentleman finally spoke: “Have we been introduced?”

Patience was incensed. Did he have nothing to say for himself? What did he care at this point for rules and manners?

“No,” she said, “and neither do I care to be introduced to you, Sir.”

The gentleman in the officer’s red jacket stepped forward, a look of sheer amusement painted across his face.

“Sir won’t do, my lady. This is the Viscount Winter. You will address him as my lord.”

“I will do no such thing!” said Patience before properly registering the name.

Her heart froze in her chest. Patience looked from the officer to the viscount.

Lord Winter? thought Patience as she let loose a torrent of vulgar expletives inside her head. He is the dowager Lady Winter’s son!

Her mother’s words came back to her then: “Be on your best behaviour tonight.”

Too late for that now. Patience had dug her own grave, and just to save anyone else the trouble of lifting her over the edge, she had jumped into the pit as well.

Patience found herself staring at the viscount as she tried to determine the best course of action from there. She found herself involuntarily studying the strong lines of his face, noticing where the light fell, the shadows under his eyes.

Could she somehow save herself at this point? Doubtful. And why should she apologise? She had done nothing wrong? Not really. Some sort of strategic retreat needed to be employed.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen. I must greet a friend of mine. We have ribbons and gossip to discuss.”

There. That should do it. No apology necessary. Perhaps he will not even mention this to his mother, thought Patience as she turned her back to the viscount and strode off. He doesn’t even know who I am. Then again, one question to almost anyone in the room would solve that mystery for him.

Richard Winter was attending the Crampton Ball under considerable duress. His mother would not attend as she was feeling “too delicate,” and as the new viscount, he could not very well snub the invitation entirely. How long did he have to stay to be polite? He supposed he would simply leave when the event became intolerable. His friend Captain Thomas Walpole was not helping matters with his boyish enthusiasm and his unwelcome encouragement.

Richard did not want to ask any lady to dance for the simple reason that he did not want to lead anyone on. If a viscount asks you to dance, it should be because he is interested, and Richard was not interested. Not in the slightest. It was enough trouble to manage his condition and keep it hidden from his family now that he was home. He certainly would not be able to hide it from a wife. And what woman would want a husband who was so weak? So broken? But he could not explain all this to Thomas, so instead he had dismissed the young ladies as being frivolous and beneath him. He had not expected to be overheard. And he had certainly not expected to receive such a dressing down from a lady to whom he had not even been introduced! Who was she?

Richard watched as the irate lady in the turquoise dress walked with some purpose across the room to a refreshment table, picked up a glass of champagne, and downed the entire glass in a few steady gulps. She replaced her empty glass on the table and strode off to join one of the wallflowers by the wall. It didn’t matter where she stood, Richard could tell that she was no wallflower.

“Well,” said Richard, “she was—”

“—voluptuous.” offered Thomas with a grin.

“I was going to say ‘brazen’.”

“A woman,” said Thomas still grinning. “Definitely not a girl. Or perhaps she is something else entirely. She seemed more like a storm in a dress than anything else. Just imagine what she would be like in bed.”

“Thomas!”

“You should ask her to dance.”

“I doubt very much that she would be receptive to that idea, and anyway, one cannot approach a lady to whom one has not been introduced,” said Richard.

“Oh, I think we could make an exception in this instance,” said Thomas reaching for a glass of champagne from a tray as one of the wait staff passed by.

“We have these rules for a reason, Thomas.”

“Well, if you won’t ask her to dance, I will,” said Thomas taking a swig from his glass.

“It would be unseemly if you did,” said Richard. “The action is beneath you. Certainly beneath the rank of captain.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows at Richard and handed him the remains of his drink. He took two steps backwards grinning while keeping his eyes on Richard, then spun around and made straight for the lady in turquoise where she was now laughing with her friend.

Now that he was on his own, Richard took the time to observe her more carefully. Her dusty blonde hair was pinned up, a few wavy tendrils falling down against her temples. He watched as she threw her head back, laughing in the most raucous fashion he had ever seen outside of a public house. Her genuine mirth lit the air around her like a sparkler flickering against the night. Richard’s eyes roved over the lush curves of her body as he took in her dress properly for the first time. There was not a lady in the room wearing anything similar. The dress looked as if it were made of two separate pieces of turquoise fabric which crossed at the front to embrace her generous breasts, wrapped tightly around her waist, and then flared once more over her wide hips. Richard watched as Thomas approached her in his smart red coat, brass buttons flashing in the candlelight.

Ever since they had returned from war on the continent, Thomas seemed at pains to extract the most hedonistic pleasures from life—drinking, gambling, boxing, women. It was as if he were overwhelming himself in sensation in order to drown out the memory of war. To all outward appearances, he seemed quite fine. He was always quick to smile, quick to laugh, and quick to throw caution unceremoniously to the wind, but Richard wondered if his behaviour was not more self-destructive than anything else. Not that Richard had broached the subject with him. Talking to Thomas about his emotional wounds would be like opening Pandora’s box—every last miserable evil thing would escape into the open.

And then what? thought Richard. No. They were men. And men did not open that box. They kept it firmly shut. Under lock and key. It was weakness that opened the box. Pandora was, after all, a woman.

Richard watched as Thomas approached the two ladies across the room. The lady in turquoise nodded and said something as she glanced over at her young friend. Even from where he stood, Richard could see the surprise on Thomas’s face as he took the hand, not of the lady in turquoise, but of her shy friend, and led her out onto the dance floor. Richard smiled to himself. Captain Walpole had clearly been outmanoeuvred by a storm in a dress. This event in and of itself was enough to make up for what had been thus far a thoroughly tedious and painful evening.

The lady in turquoise watched with an air of satisfaction as her friend began to dance with Thomas. Then before Richard had a chance to look away, she directed her piercing blue gaze straight at him. He had the strangest feeling of being completely exposed, of having nowhere to hide. She didn’t glance across him or pretend to have not been looking at him at all. She simply stared him down across the ballroom, and Richard for his part, remained oddly transfixed. After several awkward moments had passed, the lady in turquoise—still keeping her eyes on his—gently lifted her skirts from the floor and sank down into a deep and extravagant curtsy. It was such a strange thing to do, and Richard could not think why she did it. It made him feel . . . it made him feel . . . Richard did not know how it made him feel, but he knew he didn’t like it. The evening had suddenly become intolerable. Richard made his way to the door.

After Patience had left Lord Winter and the officer, she spied her mother chatting with a group of older ladies. Patience swiftly took a step to the side and hid behind a large flower arrangement which just happened to be conveniently placed upon a refreshment table. She picked up a glass of champagne and drained it quickly. She could already feel the bubbles going to work, fizzing and popping and shimmering all the way down her throat. For the life of her, she could not rid her mind of the viscount’s face, and she was still feeling exasperated not simply by his condescension, but also by his lack of reaction to the manner in which she had called him out.

He could not have been much older than thirty or so, but his eyes looked older. If she were to paint his portrait, she thought, the beard would prove troublesome. More troublesome than the beard, though, was the way he had held his face against her like some sort of shield. As a portrait artist, Patience was used to examining faces, and she thought she had seen it all, but this was something quite new. His face was like a stone wall. She received nothing from it—no hint of annoyance or amusement or boredom. Nothing at all! She had yelled in his face, and there was not a glimmer of a reaction. She knew that something must be going on behind that wall . . . but to keep his mind so concealed . . . it must take an inordinate amount of effort.

Her friend Abigail was only too glad to see her. It was Abigail’s first Season, and Patience knew what that felt like. All the expectation of a life-to-be-determined weighed you down—it was not so much your own expectation but that of others. Your own disappointment was one thing. The disappointment of someone else somehow cut deeper. Patience thought of her mother, her older brother George. Not her father the baron. He was never disappointed with her. Or if he was, he did not express it.

“I don’t know where Harriet has disappeared to,” said Abigail who was dressed in white as girls so often were during their first Season. Pictures of purity, thought Patience. She didn’t feel so pure herself, but it was not because she had ever touched a man.

“Never mind,” said Patience, “I’m here now. Perhaps I could introduce you to some people.”

“That would be lovely,” said Abigail. She sounded relieved to have someone with her. “I do not think I shall be doing any dancing tonight, so conversation shall make the evening pass a little quicker.”

“And why should you not be dancing tonight?” asked Patience. “That is what the introductions are for.”

“I have two left feet, Patience,” said Abigail in a chiding tone. “If I am to find a husband, it will be despite my dancing, not because of it.”

“I think you underestimate your abilities,” said Patience kindly.

“Oh no. I estimate my dancing abilities as they are,” said Abigail smiling brightly at her friend. “And they are beyond dreadful. At the last ball I attended, I caused the most horrific scene when I tripped over my partner and collapsed into another couple leaving all four of us sprawled across the floor. There’s not a gentleman who attended that ball who will be asking me to dance tonight.”

Patience laughed at the image Abigail had conjured in her mind.

“So what you need is someone new and unsuspecting,” she said taking her friend’s arm conspiratorially. “Someone who will not shy away from dancing with such a menace.”

It was then that Patience noticed the officer in the red jacket approaching with a wide smile and an impish look in his eye.

What, thought Patience, is he doing?!

It felt for all the world like some sort of ballroom ambush. She had played enough games as a child with her brother George to know that you never shrink from an ambush.

“Ah, here we are!” said Patience brightly as the officer stopped in front of her and Abigail, offering them a little bow. Patience affected to know the man—for why would he approach her if she did not know him? She scanned his uniform and decided he was likely a captain. What other kind of officer was there? A major? Or a general? Or was that a major general? Patience wished she had paid more attention when George had played toy soldiers, but she settled on captain as any sort of general she had ever heard of seemed to be much older.

“Captain, so good to see you! This is my friend Miss Fernside. You are in luck as she is available for this one dance.”

Patience watched the officer’s face register her familiarity with some surprise, but he recovered quickly, and to his credit, his wide smile never faltered.

“Captain Thomas Walpole at your service,” he said offering his hand to Abigail with another bow. “May I have this dance?”

“Oh . . . ah . . . yes,” said Abigail taking his hand and casting a wide-eyed and accusatory look at Patience.

Patience watched with some pleasure as her friend took to the floor with Captain Walpole. That should give these other gentlemen something to think about, she thought. Abigail is certainly worthy of a prince let alone a captain.

Watching the two of them begin to dance, she noticed that Abigail had not been exaggerating about her two left feet. Captain Walpole, however, quickly adjusted to her pace. He even paused their dancing to readjust her position and speak a few quiet words into her ear. Patience could see Abigail smiling shyly as the captain counted out the steps for her with great good humour. He did not look put-upon in the slightest. When they had danced for a stretch without incident, he leaned in to say something to Abigail, and she blushed. Patience couldn’t help noticing that Captain Walpole was quite appealing to look upon—longish dark brown hair, dark eyes, and an open, approachable face that looked ready to laugh or burst into song at any moment.

He stands in direct opposition to his friend, she thought. The derisive viscount in black. Thinking this, Patience lifted her gaze out across the ballroom in Lord Winter’s direction and was startled to find him staring right back at her. She thought she had caught a glimpse of a smile on his face, but if she had, it had disappeared in an instant, replaced by that same stony countenance—a shield of a face that gave nothing away. This irritated her almost more than his previous condescension, and Patience was struck through with the sudden urge to provoke some shift in his expression. Without taking her eyes from his, she gently and gracefully lifted her skirts from the floor and lowered herself into the deepest curtsy she could manage without falling over—a curtsy fit for a king.

That did it—Lord Winter’s face buckled under the pressure of her strange behaviour. The wall came down, and behind it, Patience could see that he looked quite astonished. As Patience lifted herself to standing once more, the viscount broke his gaze from hers and strode quickly from the ballroom. She watched him go, instinctively following the lines of his body, his wide shoulders beneath his tailored jacket, his thick muscled thighs pulling the fabric of his trousers tight as he placed one leg in front of the other.

I don’t think I’ll be painting his mother’s portrait after all, thought Patience. I am, perhaps, my own worst enemy.