The reproaches of men who’d courted her were bad enough. Other comments were blunter and more to the point. A tightly corseted dowager congratulated her thinly, then as she turned away added in an acid aside to her friend, “She’s lucky the duke is a man of honor. In my day gels who behaved like trollops were given a good whipping and sent away in disgrace.”

Another said, within George’s hearing, “I suppose her uncle forced him into it. Ashendon is not a man to be taken lightly.”

Several women asked her when the wedding was to be, and eyed her waistline searchingly.

But the worst were the women who congratulated her for being clever, for entrapping the duke. Their congratulations made her feel soiled, dirty.

“You sneaky thing. I’ve been trying to hook Everingham for the longest time. I heard how you did it. So clever, arranging to be caught like that, doing it at one of old Mrs. Gastonbury’s musical evenings. Must have made the old ladies’ wigs stand on end.”

There was no way to explain, to put the story right. She had let the duke kiss her at Mrs. Gastonbury’s, and so she had to bear the consequences of her foolishness.

And if people were determined to believe the betrothal was the result of some kind of devious stratagem on her part—and they were—well, she’d just have to grin and bear it.

The congratulations, the barbed compliments went on and on until she wanted to scream. But she’d agreed to marry the duke, and this was just the start of her punishment. She gritted her teeth and smiled and smiled and smiled until her jaw was aching. And then she smiled some more.

Lady Peplowe arrived with her daughter Penny, and George heaved a sigh of relief to see people she knew and liked. Lady Peplowe hugged her warmly and wished her all the very best, and such was her sincerity, George almost found herself a little bit teary.

But Penny was frankly surprised and said so. “I thought you were never going to get married, George. And I thought you really disliked the duke.”

George had mumbled something about changing her mind, but inside she was squirming. She wasn’t about to admit—not even to a close friend like Penny—what had really happened, how she’d more or less been forced into it, but she also wasn’t going to lie and pretend she and the duke were love’s young dream. It was all terribly awkward.

Penny and Lady Peplowe drifted off, and George looked around to see what time it was. When could she decently go home?

She caught sight of a clock and her heart sank. She’d been here barely forty minutes. She’d have to give it at least an hour more. Unless she pretended to have a headache. But that would be cowardly.

*   *   *