Lottie attended another charity ball, turned down a proposal from a useless aristocrat, had tea at Lady Ashbury’s, went shopping at Harvey Nichols, etc., etc.

She was already bored.

Lottie then braced herself to hear of all the remote locales Alec had visited while she had been slowly ossifying in a London ballroom. She was obscenely jealous—and maybe just a tad curious.

“We never spoke of you.”

Lottie pressed her lips together against his blunt admission. Not once in five years? That stung more than she would have liked. “Well. I suppose I finally did something worth mentioning, then,” she said with a hint of satisfaction.

Alec jerked his head toward her. Their close proximity made the weight of his gaze even heavier than usual. “Is that what this was all about? A bid for Sir Alfred’s attention?” His lips curled into something close to a sneer on the last word. Goodness, he really did look like a haughty Italian count.

This time Lottie couldn’t hold back her snort. “Of course not.”

Alec pushed up the brim of his hat and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Would you mind explaining it to me, then? For while it may be painfully obvious to you, I’m at a loss.”

Lottie matched his glare even while her heart beat furiously.

Why do you care? You were perfectly happy to go five years without one word between us. The retort nearly tumbled from her mouth. “I have a reason,” she snapped instead. “And it has nothing to do with wanting attention.”

“Then you should have taken more care instead of sneaking off like a thief in the night,” he ground out as he pulled away and turned back to the road. “When I received Sir Alfred’s telegram, I nearly—” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “I went to Florence immediately.”

Lottie ignored the flush of shame that burned her cheeks and crossed her arms. “Fine. I suppose I did want attention, but not…not in the way you mean.”

She had wanted Uncle Alfred to listen to her for once. To understand that she could no longer live the shallow, stifling existence society demanded of a woman like her.

When Alec had first left, Lottie threw herself into the whirl of the season and sought to become the perfect debutante. She accepted as many invitations as she could, said yes to every man who asked to dance, and smiled until her cheeks hurt. Anything to distract from the constant ache in her heart that threatened to consume her. The more mercenary part of her had even fantasized about falling passionately in love with the mysterious heir of a dukedom. A man who had traveled the world and wore an eyepatch but decided to give up his life of intrigue to marry Lottie.

That would show Alec.

But of course nothing of the kind happened. None of the gentlemen she met were anything close to mysterious, and the only person she knew who wore an eyepatch was Abigail’s ninety-year-old grandmother. By the end of her first season, her efforts had led to several proposals, but she couldn’t keep the charade up any longer. Lottie rejected them all. And with no remorse.