Then again, she was wearing a mask. She huffed a laugh—not that the aristocracy didn’t wear figurative masks every single day. Very few let their real selves be seen for fear of being hurt or ridiculed by their peers. For all their culture and confidence, fashion and fortunes, aristocrats were extraordinarily frail. Like almost everyone else, Sarani supposed.

Ravenna and Rhystan caught her eye as they twirled past. They made a stunning pair. Ravenna was radiant in a ball gown the colors of the sunset and a beautiful red-feathered mask, and Rhystan wore black. Without a mask. Sarani wondered if he’d done it to be contrary. Or perhaps he was one of those few who refused to hide who he was. She frowned, recalling his stony-faced demeanor in his bedchamber.

No, Rhystan’s masks lay behind his eyes and appeared at will.

Few ever saw the real man.

“You won’t have him, you know,” a waspish voice taunted.

Sarani turned to see a lady in a buttercup-yellow gown with a Venetian-style mask hiding her identity, but those spiteful eyes were instantly recognizable. Lady Penelope, if Sarani were to hazard an educated guess. Given Sarani also wore a mask, she wondered how the woman had recognized her in the first place. Then again, she’d be standing with Ravenna, who was now dancing with her brother, the maskless duke. And from Penelope’s tone, she’d been watching Sarani since their arrival.

She looked away. “Why is that?”

“You’re a nobody,” she said. “The dowager duchess won’t stand for it. No one in the ton will stand for it.”

“Good thing it’s not up to her or anyone else,” Sarani replied.

“You think you are above us, don’t you?”

A bubble of laughter burned in Sarani’s throat. It’d been quite some time since she’d felt above anyone. Practically her entire life, from childhood to adulthood, Sarani had felt as though she couldn’t quite measure up, that something essential was missing that would elevate her…allow her to play with the other children, to marry a man who valued her, or to feel worthy of being loved. Even now, in pretense with Rhystan, she existed on the periphery. Good enough for some things. Not enough for others.

“All your airs and standoffishness,” Penelope went on, “but secrets will always come out. Remember that, Lady Sara, when you look down your nose at the rest of us and covet that which does not belong to you.”

“I did not covet anything that did not want to be coveted,” Sarani said calmly, though the way Penelope had snarled “Lady” sent a wary shiver shooting up Sarani’s spine. “And the duke is not a that, he’s a who, and contrary to what you may think, he does have a mind of his own.”

“No one denies me what is mine.”