Evie had to stop thinking, however privately, that she and her sister were pretenders, that they didn’t belong because of the choices they’d been forced to make. They were of noble blood, and it wasn’t their fault that they’d grown up in poverty. If they hadn’t been forced from their homeland, they would have enjoyed lives precisely like the ones they were leading now. Except they would have been able to do so openly and honestly, and without fear of judgment or disdain. Instead, Heloise was the former courtesan who was unwelcome in many social circles, while Evie chose to hide her past and take on a new identity that didn’t allow her to be her full self.

Alas, that was the price she had to pay to live in comfort and acceptance. She gave it without hesitation because it meant she belonged, even though it required deceiving many of those closest to her.

Lady Witney turned her gaze to Evie. She’d made her point of giving attention to Heloise and could now get back to her quarry. Evie took a long sip of madeira.

“How do you find the shopping in our quaint hamlet?” the marchioness asked. “It’s not London, of course, but the milliner does make rather cunning hats.”

“I’ve found that to be so,” Heloise said. “In fact, I’ve commissioned several. I fear Mr. Creighton may ask me to limit my spending there.” She laughed, and Evie joined her.

It took Lady Witney a moment to laugh too, and when she did, the sound was high and stilted. If Evie liked her, she would have offered to help her work on her polite conversation and reactions.

Evie suddenly felt rather uncharitable. Perhaps there was a reason for the marchioness’s disagreeability and her desire to feel important. One never knew what another was coping with. It was possible that becoming marchioness had completely overwhelmed her. It was also possible that she really was a shrew.

“Do you have a favorite milliner in London?” Lady Witney asked, directing the question to Evie instead of Heloise, even though it had been Heloise who had commented on the merchant in Witney.

“The one Heloise uses,” Evie said with a bland smile.

“Oh, lovely.” Lady Witney turned her expectant gaze to Heloise, who—Evie could tell—was gritting her teeth.

“Weaver’s on New Bond Street.”

A gentleman in his middle forties sporting bushy eyebrows and long sideburns, approached them. Evie resisted the urge to thank him for the interruption. “Afternoon, ladies. Pardon my intrusion, but I wonder if we’ve already been introduced?” He asked the question of Evie, his small, dark eyes focused on her, his gaze swiftly dipping to her bodice and back to her face again.

Perhaps this interruption was not all that welcome.

He did seem vaguely familiar, but Evie didn’t particularly want to play the “how do I know you?” game with him.