Matthew rolled his eyes. “The word, you stupid slag, is innuendos.”

“Since I suspect the word ‘slag’ is neither nice nor used in a loving, brotherly manner, I shall forgo discussing your use of it and repeat my request—if you have something particular to say against my husband, please do so, but be aware that nothing short of Alasdair turning out to be the sort of man who eats small children for breakfast would induce me to turn to you for help or assistance. Even then, I would rather deal with a child-munching man than place myself in your power.”

Matthew gave another cold bark of laughter, sending a little frisson of worry skittering across the somewhat sparsely furnished hallways of Charlotte’s mind. “Oh, you’ll find out in good time, my dear sister. And before too long, I’d wager.”

What was he up to? she wondered as the dance came to an end. Rather than escort her back to where her husband waited, he simply dropped her hand and turned on his heel. It was a cut, and Charlotte knew it. Normally a cut from her brother would not have bothered her, especially not on her evening, the evening that should have been such a glorious triumph. But the cold shadow of worry about Matthew’s words had joined with the shame of having her intimate marital details shouted to everyone. The evening was ruined.

She thought of bursting into tears right there, but Dare’s softly whispered words echoed in her head. Don’t let them see you care. Lifting her chin, she looked out at the figures around her, strolling, talking, laughing as if nothing life-shattering had happened.

But something life-shattering had happened—she had changed. She blinked for a moment, stunned by that unwary thought, then pushed it aside to examine it later. No doubt it was just a rogue thought, one of those pesky, troublesome thoughts that really had no place in her mind, but which were, to her dismay, appearing with a worrisome frequency.

It wasn’t to be, however. The thought returned, and for the first time since she had come out, Charlotte felt herself distanced from the tightly woven threads of Society. She stood outside it, able to see the strands of etiquette and manners that bound everyone together, blurring them until individuals could no longer be seen, and only the whole—a bright, glittering braid that made up the haut ton—was visible. She shook her head and tried to blink the fanciful thoughts away, but as her eyes roamed over the crowded room, she realized that her first thought was true: Time had changed her. She was no longer a part of Society. She was alone, an outcast, not part of the whole, but separate.

Her eyes filled with tears, blurring the image before her even more until all she saw was a swaying blur of color and lights, and for a moment she had an inkling of what Dare had said about looking beyond appearances. She truly was an outsider if she could see the flaws beneath the shining veneer of the ton. A sob of self-pity gathered in her throat, but stopped there as a tall blond man in black evening clothes emerged from the blur and strolled toward her.