Ceril looked positively shocked to have his less-than-honorable intentions, as well as his family’s reckless spending, called out so plainly. Then the frown returned, darker than ever. “The rumors about you are true. You’re nothing but a jilt. And a tease.”

If she had been a man, Lottie would have called him out. She had only ever been polite, as etiquette dictated she be to every man who asked her to dance or made conversation. There was no point wasting anything more on him. Without another word, she spun on her heels and returned to the ballroom, but instead of letting her go quietly, Ceril had been right behind her and took no pains to hide his extreme displeasure. It was clear to everyone what had happened between them. But all sympathies fell to the desirable young bachelor, not the lady on her fifth season.

Such was the way of things.

Even Uncle Alfred would not defend her: “I’ve tried to reason with the chap, but he won’t have you now. He’s planning to offer for that damned American glue heiress instead. You could have been a countess, Lottie. I won’t indulge in your silly notions any longer.”

Those “silly notions” had been waiting for a love match. For what was the use of having her own fortune if she couldn’t even do that? “Uncle, you can’t have expected me to marry Ceril—”

“Ceril Belvedere is exactly the kind of man you should marry.” Before she could illuminate him on the finer details of what exactly that meant, he plowed ahead. “I made a terrible mistake in allowing your mother to marry whomever she wanted, and look what happened to her.”

This accusation had rendered her speechless.

Lottie’s father was the only son of a wildly successful Scottish tool manufacturer. Not a blue blood by any means, but John Carlisle was well educated and ambitious. He had met Lottie’s mother, Ada, while she was admiring the June roses in Regent’s Park and later described it as “love at first bloom.” Though tongues had wagged over the parvenu groom, the Carlisles enjoyed an unusually happy marriage, until they died in an all-too-ordinary carriage crash in Richmond.

Lottie’s eyes prickled. “That was an accident,” she said thickly.

“And it will not happen to you,” he vowed. Uncle Alfred was always absolute in his opinions, but she had never seen this nonsensical side of him before. “I can only assume that a case of nerves has led you to behave so irrationally,” he continued. “You need rest. Take a trip somewhere and prepare yourself. Because jilt or no, you will be married by the end of next season. Even if it’s not anyone of quality.”