Mary gasped as though their mother’s request was on par with one of Hercules’ labors. “But Mama,” she said, “what if no gentleman asks me to dance?”

“If you keep your distance from the potted palms and manage to smile once or twice, you’ll have your choice of dance partners. I’m sure of it.”

When Mary gave a pathetic cough and opened her mouth to protest, Mama cut her off at the pass. “You haven’t been ill in a long time, Mary. Your sister is marrying Lord Singleton so that your father will not go to debtors’ prison and so that you and I do not become destitute. Considering the sacrifice Sophie’s making for us, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you fill your dance card at the ball.”

Sophie and Mary sat there, momentarily stunned. Never before had Sophie heard her mother speak to her sister so sharply. And she’d never heard Mama explicitly acknowledge what the marriage would cost Sophie.

She supposed that hearing her sister finally being held to account should have been satisfying, but instead the conversation left Sophie feeling unbearably sad and bereft.

She couldn’t help thinking about Reese and the life that might have been theirs. Couldn’t help remembering how safe and happy she’d felt in his arms.

Her eyes stung as she glanced at the folded newspaper on the table, open to Fiona’s clever depiction of their intrepid trio. She’d drawn Sophie with her hip cocked and a wicked, self-assured gleam in her eyes. Unapologetically bold, confident, and powerful, the woman on the paper staring back at her could have been the goddess of nature, and the mistress of all that grew and bloomed.

Sophie was humbled to think that her friend had imagined her that way.

But the truth was that Sophie barely recognized the woman in the drawing—and with every day that passed, she became more of a stranger.

Chapter 31

Later that evening, Sophie maintained a cheerful façade as she welcomed the women to what would be her last meeting as chair of the Debutante Underground. The room buzzed with nervous chatter, for it seemed that the latest edition of The Debutante’s Revenge had rocked London like an earthquake, and the aftershocks had been rolling through town all day long.

“My older brother was incensed,” one young woman confessed. “He said the authoress of such vile advice should be placed in stocks in the middle of St. James’s Square.”

“My father intends to take up the matter with the authorities,” another chimed in. “He said today’s column is proof that the authoress has poisoned impressionable female minds.”

The members rolled their eyes and erupted in a collective disgusted groan.