There was a rustle of crinoline as she swept away on his arm, laughing throatily at something he said. I pushed my chair further back so that I was sitting against the wall. I longed to be absorbed into it, to become a true wallflower so that I did not have to watch my cousin make a fool of herself.

Ball after ball it was the same. I had to pretend not to listen when I heard the other women begin to whisper behind raised fans, whisper about her:

“Such a pretty little thing, Isabelle Montgomery -“

“This season is her debut and already she’s well known -“

“And no wonder! Such an easy little thing. I heard Mr. de Grave stole a kiss in the gardens a fortnight ago.”

Women could be so cruel. I slapped my fan shut remembering how my stomach had curdled the first time I heard those words. I wish I could tell my cousin, warn her somehow.

But she would never listen. She was madly in love with Vincent de Grave, the man with whom she was dancing now. The man who was singlehandedly ruining her reputation.