“You don’t belong here. You could never dream of being a part of us.”

“Hide the silver, is that it?” Emily turned to face him and offered the marquess a serene smile. “Let me reassure you. I am not after Stephen’s wealth or his title.”

“You’ve blinded him. Like a common lightskirt, aren’t you? He isn’t thinking clearly.”

“I am not a lightskirt, my lord. Nor will I be a target for your ill-aimed insults. I am the Countess of Whitmore. You had best get used to it.”

It would have been a rather grand exit, had her hands not been shaking so badly she had to set down her glass of lemonade. No matter what, she promised herself she would not cry.

Especially when she caught the triumphant smile of Lady Thistlewaite.

Chapter Ten

Emily held a plate of lemon cream molded in the shape of a fish. She gripped the plate hard enough to stop her shaking hands. Tonight had been beyond her worst nightmares. Not only had she endured the stares and gossip, but her own husband had abandoned her. Would this evening never end? She cast a longing look toward the door, hoping to escape.

Perhaps if she kept her back to the wall, slowly moving toward it, she could slip away without Stephen noticing. She started moving, but when she passed by one of the corridors, she heard the sound of weeping.

She really shouldn’t interfere. It wasn’t her business, after all. But someone else was having an even worse evening than her own, by the sound of it.

The noise led her to a young woman, who was crying just beyond the ballroom. She wore an ice-blue satin gown trimmed with matching ribbons and her hair was a lovely auburn color. Glittering diamonds sparkled about her neck.

“Are you all right?” Emily asked.

The young woman tried to dry her tears, nodding and waving her hand. “I am fine.” When she looked up and saw Emily’s face, her expression transformed into hatred. “Oh. It’s you.”

Emily didn’t know what to say, but the woman continued. “Lady Thistlewaite warned me that you were here.”

“Have we met?” Emily asked, uncertain of why the girl would hate her so much.

“I am Harriet Hereford.”

Ah. The spurned maiden. “I am Emily.” She deliberately did not give her surname, because really, what was the point in upsetting the woman further? Already the young woman knew that she had married Stephen.

“You stole Lord Whitmore from me,” Miss Hereford said in a tight voice. “We intended to marry.”

Whether or not it was true, the woman certainly believed it. Emily held her dessert spoon like a weapon, even as Miss Hereford advanced upon her. “This is not a battle between us,” she said. “If you have a quarrel, you should discuss it with Lord Whitmore.”